Cardinality
by mossley
Summary: A serial killer is stalking the citizens of Las Vegas. This is a repost of an ffnet safe version of the story and the questionable scenes have been removed. The original can be found at my web site.
1. Ch 1

**Cardinality  
****Summary:** A serial killer is stalking the citizens of Las Vegas. Started out as a case file but the G/S aspect demanded equal representation. This is the safe version for this site. The original version can be found at my web site.  
**Rating:** R for subject matter  
**A/N**: No real spoilers. Many thanks to Burked for teaching me how to be a serial killer, among many other things.  
**Disclaimer**: Obviously, I don't own anything related to CSI. If I did, certain characters would be getting more screen time – together!

* * *

"_I cannot help it; in spite of myself, infinity torments me."_ – Alfred de Musset

**Chapter 1 **

Catherine moved her flashlight over the apartment walls, tracing out complex patterns, only to get confused and having to start over. In her years as a forensic investigator, she'd seen a wide range of crimes and crime scenes. They needed a variety of adjectives to describe them. Tonight, however, she was having trouble deciding how to classify what was before her.

"This qualifies as weird," Catherine finally decided, sending her flashlight back on another trip around the walls, trying to decipher the puzzle before her. "Definitely weird. Can you make any sense of this, Gil?"

"Very little of it, actually," he said, looking up from collecting bugs off of their victim. "That's why I'm down here."

Catherine suppressed a smile at his enthusiasm. This was his first night back since having surgery to correct his hearing. He was ecstatic between his joy at being back to work and finding a collection of creepy things to examine. He looked like a very tall, graying boy in a nightmarish candy shop.

She stepped closer to examine the walls in more detail. Then she stepped further back to take in more of the scene. Her flashlight moved in another erratic dance across the plaster. After several minutes, she shook her head in a mixture of dizziness and defeat. "I'm calling Sara."

Grissom's head shot up. "It's her night off. She won't like that," he said nervously.

Catherine swung around to stare at her friend in disbelief.

"How long were you gone? Sara not like this?" she asked spreading her arms to indicate their scene. "She'll be pissed if we don't call her." Giving him a friendly grin, she moved to kneel next to him. "Gil, you can't hide forever. You'll have to work with her eventually. That," she pointed to the walls, "requires Sara. If you can't work with her, then take yourself of this case."

"And you'll do the bugs?" Grissom asked, holding a squirming bug out to his partner. When she gave him a dirty look, he sighed. She was right; Sara was the best person for this case. He couldn't put this off. "Okay, we need her. But you call."

* * *

Sara approached the crime scene suppressing her yawn. The one night she had actually decided to sleep, and she got a mysterious call from Catherine. All the older woman would tell her was there had been a murder requiring her expertise.

"Hey, David," she called as the coroner's assistant directed a body into the van.

"Sara! A pleasure as always. I thought you were off tonight," he said flashing her a smile.

"So did I," she said, too tired to pay attention to his poor attempts at flirting. "Just one vic?"

"Yeah. Grissom and Catherine are upstairs. Third floor," he said. "Got to run. See you later."

"Bye," she said distractedly. Grissom was here. Catherine hadn't mentioned that. What kind of case would require all three of them? Whatever it was, it must be high profile. There was a number of police vehicles and a spattering of TV cameras.

Crossing the yellow police tape, she headed up the stairwell. Police officers were taking statements from shocked neighbors. She found Grissom collecting bugs outside of one of the apartment doors. He looked up as she approached and gave her a hesitant smile.

"Hey, Grissom. Good to see you," she said. This was the first time they had talked in weeks. She had left him several phone messages about a case, but he had always replied by e-mail. She wondered if he was still uncomfortable around her. After she had asked him out, he seemed to be trying harder to keep distance between them.

"Sara. Hi. Sorry. About calling you in on your night off," he said. Sara decided he was nervous. She tried not to smile.

"No problem. What's up?"

"Victor Wallace, 49, Caucasian, single. Apartment manager found his body after neighbors began complaining about the smell. Multiple stab wounds," he detailed as he stood up. Grissom gave her a mysterious look. "Some cases just scream 'Sara'."

"Really?" she asked, raising an amused eyebrow.

"Really," he replied dryly, grasping her elbow hesitantly to help her over the debris in the apartment entrance. Letting go of her arm, he turned his flashlight on to move its light over the walls. She mimicked his motions.

"Wow! Is that what I think it is?" Sara asked.

"Yes," Grissom replied. He moved his flashlight to the other walls. "There's more."

Sara turned around to examine all the walls of the victim's living room. "Same thing in the bedroom and bathroom. Catherine thought you'd like this," he admitted.

"Oh, yeah," she smiled.

Each of the walls held similar cryptic scenes. Starting near the top and going most of the way down equations and mathematical formulas covered the plaster. They were scrawled messily, sometimes overlapping. Some were crossed out in broad, angry strokes, as if a demented pupil were trying unsuccessfully to solve a difficult problem.

They were written in blood.

* * *

Sara stepped over to the closest wall, running her flashlight over the assorted symbols and numbers. It didn't take her long to realize it wasn't a continuous flow. Instead, it seemed as if their perp had worked a few lines of one problem, before picking up in the middle of another. Sweeping the light over the other walls, she could detect no obvious pattern to the equations.

"It doesn't look like he ever finished a problem," she called out. "These are just parts of equations; he never carried one all the way to the end."

"I don't feel so bad, then," Catherine said, coming in from the bedroom. She gave Sara a grateful smile. "I couldn't make any sense of it."

Grissom watched as the two women examined another section of wall, Sara pointing out where one problem stopped and another began. Catherine had been right to call her in. The younger CSI had already made more progress with the equations than either of them had been able to.

Leaning back on his haunches, Grissom gathered up his evidence, stowing it carefully in his case, and sweeping the room with his eyes one last time. This case looked like the work of a signature killer. Messages were rarely left in blood unless the writer was trying to make a drastic point. Determining what that message meant would be key in catching their killer.

And Sara was better with math than anyone else in the lab. He should have called her in immediately. That he didn't bothered him. He'd avoided a getting involved with Sara partially out of fear it would interfere with their professional relationship.

That was happening anyway, and what did he have to show for it?

"You two have a handle on this? I've got to get these back to the lab," Grissom said, carefully packing the last of his multi-legged evidence.

Catherine gave him a dirty look. "It's going to take two of us a long time to process all of this," she said coldly, placing special emphasis on 'two'.

Procedure required that they start by taking bracketed photographs of each word in any writing sample, complete with a measured scale, so the graphologist, Dr. Rambar, could analyze it. Once the photographs were taken, they would need a sample from each word to verify all the blood came from the same source. Then they could move on to examining the smears to see if any trace evidence was present.

They had a scene with 12 walls covered in equations, where nearly every character would count as an individual word. It would take scores of photographs and swabs for each wall.

Grissom smiled guiltily. "Sorry, these guys can't wait. I'll send the boys over when they get back from their cases."

"Tell them to bring extra film and swabs!" Sara called out as he quickly left the room. She chuckled lightly, shrugging her shoulders when Catherine turned to glare at her.

"Glad you find this funny," the blonde complained. "This is going to take hours!"

"Thanks for calling me in on this, Cath. Glad to see someone wants to work with me," she joked.

"Gil didn't want to bother you in on your night off," Catherine replied, not wanting to confirm Sara's suspicions. Walking over to the younger woman, she handed her the photography equipment. "I've already gotten locator shots on all the walls. You can figure out what counts as individual shots. If in doubt, take multiple pics," she said. "Let's start in the bathroom. Least amount of writing in there. I'll swab as you finish each section of wall."

"Right," Sara said, not bothering to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. She went into the bathroom while Catherine gathered supplies from her kit. She gave the walls a quick glance, determining the best place to start. After a minute, she came back into the living room to examine the writing in there again.

The older woman smiled. Sara was getting better with blood analysis. It hadn't taken her long to notice.

"Is all the writing like this?" the brunette asked. She grinned when Catherine gave her an approving nod. "How did he do this? Human blood starts to congeal within 10 minutes. There's no way he could have written all this in that amount of time. But it's all consistent. There's no change in viscosity. It couldn't have coagulated."

"Good catch. We'll have Tox check the samples. There are a number of chemicals that can be added to blood to stop it from congealing. It's also possible the victim had a clotting disorder," Catherine said as Sara moved into the bathroom to start taking photographs. "So, what's up?" she asked after a few minutes.

Sara remained silent as she moved the measured scale to another section of the wall and took another series of photographs. "I broke the rules. I asked a direct question. He hasn't figured out how to answer it, yet," she replied, giving a rueful smile to her colleague. "Although, after a month, I guess that's an answer in itself."

"Must have been some question," Catherine quipped.

"No, it wasn't. That's the sad part," Sara said with a lop-sided grin.

Catherine gave her a friendly smile. She wanted to reassure her, but knew Grissom had to come clean on his own. "There's been some other things going on in his life, Sara," she said.

"What kind of things?" she asked, moving to reload the camera.

"The kind I'm not going to talk about," the blonde said, labeling another sample. "Be patient."

Sara laughed. "Cath, I waited three years before confronting him. I think I have 'patient' covered. For now. I'm not going to wait forever," she said, giving Catherine a pointed look. "Pass it on."

When the other woman put on a shocked expression, Sara laughed again. "Don't play innocent, Cath. It doesn't suit you."

Catherine shook her head as the two women returned to their work. At least Sara didn't seem too upset about this. She had to give the brunette credit: she was patient. And she would be having a talk with Grissom later. He wasn't going to be making a habit of leaving a crime scene just because Sara was working it.

By the time Warrick arrived, they had finished the bathroom and moved to the bedroom. Catherine directed him to start dusting the bathroom. Two hours later, Nick was sent to examine the trash dumpster outside the apartment building. A police officer had discovered something that looked like blood drops around it.

"I don't think I want to spend Thanksgiving around here," the Texan said when he eventually re-entered the apartment. He held up a large evidence bag containing a bloody turkey baster.

"Yuck," Sara said. "When does the trash run?"

"Tuesday and Friday. So if this matches our victim, then we have a probable time frame," he said.

"If it matches our vic?" Sara joked. "I wouldn't want to live in this neighborhood if it doesn't!" She emptied the last roll of film from the camera and placed it with the others before moving to help Catherine finish the blood swabs.

It would be well after shift ended before they took their evidence to the lab and headed home.

* * *

"What's up, Doc?" Catherine chirped as she entered the morgue the next shift.

"That's something I never hear," Robbins said dryly. "Would you like to know how your Victor Wallace died?"

"From your tone of voice, I'm going to guess it wasn't from stab wounds," she said.

"Internal bleeding. The stabbing was done postmortem," he said, sticking a gloved finger into a bloody hole. "From the wound track, I'd say the turkey baster was used to suck out the blood as it pooled in the chest cavity after death. It's hard to be exact, but it looks like your killer managed to collect about six pints."

"Wow. He would have had to waited, what, a couple hours for that much blood to collect. Any idea what caused the internal bleeding?" Catherine asked.

"Blunt force trauma to the abdomen. And he bled out quickly. We found large quantities of warfarin in his blood."

"An anti-coagulant. Explains why the blood never congealed when he was doing his homework."

"We won't know how he ingested the warfarin until we run some more tests. You didn't find any medicine bottles, so it doesn't look like it was prescribed. We'll find out more once we get his medical records. He could have been given small amounts over a long period, or a single large dose. Even then, it would take at least 24 hours before it took effect," Robbins said. "This was planned in advance, Catherine."

* * *

"I know math is hell, but yowsa!"

"Greg, did you page me just to say that?" Grissom asked in a very irritated voice. Catherine had spent more than an hour chewing him out for leaving the scene the previous night. She didn't buy his reasoning that he needed to take care of the bugs. He grudgingly admitted that he might have left to avoid working with Sara. Grissom was upset to admit that he was letting his personal problems affect his work. The blonde's warning - "You're running out of time. Fix this!" - hadn't helped his mood.

"Uh, no," the lab tech swallowed nervously. He didn't like it when Grissom was in this sort of mood.

"Good, because mathematics is the basis on which all other science is built. How can you consider yourself a scientist and not appreciate math?"

Greg started to ask how entomology was based on math, but decided he really didn't want to know the answer. And Grissom would have an answer.

"We're still replicating the blood samples you guys collected last night. As you know, oh mighty one, blood contains very little DNA. We can't test it until we make lots more of those little protein strands," he said, trying to lighten the mood.

"Yes, I know that, oh soon-to-be-unemployed-one," Grissom said sharply. "Do you have a point?"

"The blood on the walls? Definitely human. But it's not your victim's," he quickly answered.

* * *

Sara sorted through the stacks of photographs, trying to find a pattern to the equations. There had to be some sort of rhyme or reason to the scrawled writings, but she was well into a double shift and hadn't found it. Closing her eyes, she leaned her head back and rolled it from side to side, trying to unlock her stiffening muscles.

A headache was forming, but the idea of going home to sleep it off was quickly dismissed. This case was too important, and despite her cavalier attitude at the scene, she was miffed that Grissom hadn't called her in right away. As a physicist, she had a broader background in mathematics than anyone else on the team.

More than ever, she wanted to demonstrate her skills. She could think of only one reason why Grissom hadn't assigned her to the case immediately. He didn't want to work with her. That wasn't surprising; he'd often avoided her, but he'd never deliberately kept her off a case where she was the logical CSI to work it.

Who knew that a simple dinner invitation would have this type of consequence? At the worst, she'd considered that the meal would go terribly, and they'd both agree to never mention it again. She hadn't thought that it could potentially damage her career.

Sara pushed that idea down as she worked on loosening her shoulders. Grissom could have refused to let Catherine call her in. He may be avoiding her, but at least he wasn't actively interfering with her job.

A waist-high chirping caught her attention, and she pulled her pager out to find a summons to the Layout Room. Since she was already there, she raised a curious eyebrow, but started clearing away her evidence.

"Hey," Warrick called out as he and Nick entered the room. "What have you got so far?"

"A headache, mainly," she quipped. "You guys know what's up?"

"We're looking at a probable serial killer," Grissom said as he entered the room, with Catherine and a nervous Greg in tow. "The blood on the wall doesn't belong to the victim."

"What?"

Greg cleared his voice nervously. Grissom's rebuke earlier caused him to get to the point directly. "I needed to wait for the DNA to replicate before I had enough to test. I decided to go ahead and type it while I waited. The victim is AB. The blood from the walls is A."

"Could the killer have used his own blood?" Warrick wondered.

"Not likely," Sara injected quickly. "By my estimate, there's about four or five pints of blood on the walls."

"How did you get that figure?" Grissom asked, peering over his glasses.

"There's about 115 linear feet of wall space involved, once you take out the windows and doorways. At any given section, the area covered by writing averages about six feet from top to bottom. About one-third of the plaster in that area is covered in blood. That gives about 130 square feet covered. A gallon of paint will cover 450 square feet. The viscosity isn't the same, but it's close enough," she said, pointing out the details on a photograph.

Grissom considered the calculations, giving a non-committal nod.

"And I tested the turkey baster. There are two sets of agglutination enzymes present. Two different blood sources. Once it replicates, I'll do the DNA profiles and run them through CODIS," Greg added, giving Sara a friendly smile.

"Make sure Toxicology tests the blood from the walls for warfarin. Our vic was full of it. He died from internal bleeding after a blow to the stomach. The stab wounds were made postmortem to suck out the blood."

"Any chance the warfarin was ingested accidentally? It's used in rat poison, and that place was crawling with them," Sara asked Catherine.

"Not likely. Doc said the levels were too high. The dosage in rat poison is real low; he would've had to eat pounds of it to get that much warfarin in his system. We're waiting on his medical records to find out if it was prescribed."

"You can get a prescription for rat poison?" Nick asked in confusion.

"Coumadin," Grissom explained. "It's what makes fresh mowed hay smell like fresh mowed hay. Back in the 1930s a bunch of cows in Wisconsin started dying suddenly. Turns out the previous summer had been very hot and very wet. Once the hay had been cut and stored, a mold developed. The mold and heat caused the coumadin molecules to bond, forming dicoumadin. This new compound interferes with the clotting action in blood."

"So any type of bump or bruise would cause ole' Bessie to bleed to death," Nick said.

"Exactly. Makes it very effective as a rat poison. They tried to use it as a blood thinner in humans, but had trouble determining an effective dose. It varied too much between test subjects. A dosage that would have no effect on Sara, for example, could be lethal for me. Even now, patients are started out on very low doses. It's gradually increased until the right level is found."

"So how did the perp know how much to give?" Sara asked. "Wild guess? Massive amounts that would kill anyone?"

"Good question. Doc said the poisoning could have been one large dose, or small amounts over a length of time. A single dose still takes at least a day to take effect," Catherine added. "He'll let us know more when the tox screens come back."

"Good. What else?" Grissom asked, looking around the table.

"Toxicology is checking the warfarin. Seeing if they can narrow down the probable source. Jacqui's running the prints. We lifted a lot of them," Catherine said.

"I've already been to Trace. I found a 2-inch fiber in the blood in the bedroom. Figured it might be from a brush," Warrick said.

"That jives with what QD said," Nick added. "A brush was used to apply the blood. Writing's consistent, too. Same person, right-handed."

"Turns out this fiber is sheep's hair, though."

"Sumi-e."

The others turned to stare at Grissom.

"Oriental ink art and calligraphy. The brushes are often made from sheep hair."

"I'll check the local art supply houses. See who carries them," Catherine volunteered.

"That's a start, but he could have gotten them from a hundred different web sites," Grissom pointed out. "What about Rambar?"

"I've had copies of the photos sent to him," Sara added. "He doesn't think he'll be able to tell us much. The writing's mostly print."

"What about the equations?"

"I haven't been able to find any sort of pattern, yet. It's an odd mix. Mainly trigonometric equations. I don't recognize any of these formulas, and I haven't been able to find any references to them."

"We need to know what it means. The killer didn't just paint the walls in blood for fun," he said shortly.

Sara bit her lip, looking down to avoid the embarrassed and sympathetic stares from the others. Considering he hadn't wanted her on the case to begin with, she found his attitude vexing. Grissom was right, though. Killers didn't leave writing in blood randomly; there was a reason behind this. The quicker they found the answer, the quicker they would catch their killer.

"I know. I'll head over to the university. See if I can track down a mathematician who can make sense of it," she said quietly.

"Good. I'll go with you."

"I think I can manage at least that much by myself."

Grissom looked up in confusion. He noted Sara's angry expression and tension, as well as the uncomfortable looks from the others.

"I know you can. But I need to figure out this signature," he said slowly. "It's the most important evidence we have right now. He's leaving some sort of message. We have to find out what it means. He's collected blood from his last victim, probably to leave at the next scene.

"Let's get to work on this, people. This case is our top priority. The mayor's office is screaming to get this solved."

As he headed out to return to his office, Grissom called out to Sara. "I'll be ready to leave in five minutes. Meet me in the parking lot."

"Lucky me," she muttered, earning her a sympathetic smile from the others.

* * *

For the umpteenth time that day, Sara cursed herself silently for coming up with the idea of visiting a mathematician. They had arrived at the university to find the department had gone en masse to a conference in Reno. Deciding to try their luck in the engineering department, they found few professors in their offices during the break before fall classes began.

The dean they had finally located reminded her of a troglodyte. He had eyed her snidely and promptly rejected her initial assessment of the equations, even before he looked at them. When she pulled out the photographs, he dismissed 'graffiti' as beneath him.

A few choice comments from Grissom got the dean to re-examine the images, but he made no headway on them. Not that he tried very hard. He was distracted by his own problem, working at a whiteboard with two graduate assistants, trying to locate where they had made an error in their calculations.

Worse, the two assistants had been ogling her when they took breaks from a quiet but heated conversation. Grissom, true to his socially clueless nature, had only noticed her rising anger, giving her a disapproving look.

While Grissom tried to direct the dean's attention back to their photographs, Sara turned to face the two assistants. A hushed "We should tell them" caused her to clear her throat. When they turned to stare at her, Sara crossed her arms over her chest, blocking their view. After they looked up, she stared harshly at them.

"Is there something you'd like to share with the rest of the class?" she asked pointedly.

"Professor Brandenburg…"

"Isn't going to help," the other interrupted.

"Who's Professor Brandenburg?" Grissom asked, moving to stand beside Sara.

"He's a retired computer consultant. He moved to Las Vegas last summer. He sometimes gave seminars here, filled in for other professors," assistant one said.

"And he could help us because?" Sara asked.

"His PhD and post-graduate work were in pure mathematics."

"But he's not working any more," assistant two interrupted. "He turned down that full-time position. Remember?"

"Is he any good?" Grissom asked the dean. "And is he at the Reno conference?"

"Hmm. I suppose. He helped set up some models we use. They say he's a brilliant mathematician, but you'd think someone that smart would know what would happen when someone his weight tried to go rock climbing. Second childhood. He only got out of the hospital last week. He's still in physical therapy, so he didn't go to the conference."

"Do you think he'd help us?"

"Maybe. Call first for an appointment. He doesn't like people just dropping by." The dean excused himself to find the departmental secretary, and returned a moment later with a printout. He started to hand the paper to Grissom, but presented it to Sara after giving her a look-over. "You ask. He's a flirt. He'll like you. You're his type."

"Thanks," Grissom said, heading towards the door, grabbing her by the elbow to escort her out when he realized she was angry. He gave her a puzzled look. She usually was more professional than this. He blinked when he saw the intensity of her expression.

At the doorway Sara paused, freeing her arm from Grissom, causing him to look back in confusion. Walking back to the whiteboard, she grabbed a marker from one of the graduate students and corrected the problem. Spinning back around, she marched out of the room in a huff, leaving four confused men behind her.

In the parking lot, a page spared Grissom from bearing the brunt of her temper.

"I can't believe you," she muttered, pacing angrily around the Tahoe.

"Hmm," he said distractedly, feeling his own patience strained when he read the latest missive from the mayor. "I have to get back to the lab. You handle Brandenburg."

"I can't believe you expect me to do this."

"You can flirt," he said encouragingly, misreading her ire for apprehension. Looking up, he saw her staring incredulously at him. He shrugged defensively, wondering why she was in a bad mood. "Well, I'm not his type."

_TBC_


	2. Ch 2

**Cardinality  
****Summary:** A serial killer is stalking the citizens of Las Vegas. Started out as a case file but the G/S aspect demanded equal representation. This is the safe version for this site. The original version can be found at my web site.  
**Rating:** R for subject matter  
**A/N**: No real spoilers. Many thanks to Burked for teaching me how to be a serial killer, among many other things.  
**Disclaimer**: Obviously, I don't own anything related to CSI. If I did, certain characters would be getting more screen time – together!

* * *

"_I cannot help it; in spite of myself, infinity torments me."_ – Alfred de Musset

**Chapter 2 **

"Well, if it isn't little Miss Sunshine," Catherine teased as she glided into the locker room that night, finding a clearly upset Sara stashing away her personal items.

"Don't start."

"Okay," she said, backing off at the harsh tone. Leaning against the far locker, she gave the younger woman a friendly smile. "You know, the mayor's office and the sheriff have been riding his ass about this case since it started. He's a little stressed. Don't take it personally."

Ignoring her colleague's comments, Sara went directly to gathering her evidence and headed to the Layout Room. Catherine followed cautiously, sensing there was more to this than Grissom's terse behavior.

"Did things go okay at the university?"

"Not really."

"Mathematician couldn't help?"

"Couldn't find one," Sara sighed, explaining the day's events.

"He didn't," the blonde exclaimed lightly when she got to the part about flirting, her lips twitching. "Sorry."

"He did," she muttered, failing to see the humor. She'd found the entire exchange insulting. Seeing the younger woman's discomfort, Catherine gave her a friendly smile and shrugged, as if to suggest what else would you expect from Grissom.

Sara glared briefly before pulling a note from her bag. "I spent all afternoon talking to his secretary. Not a nice woman. He was out of town today, but I finally arranged an appointment tomorrow morning to visit a retired, oversized flirt. One Professor Gustav-Maximilian Brandenburg."

"Ouch. Who would do that to their kid?"

"Why don't you ask him yourself?" Sara asked pleadingly. "You're … better … at this kinda thing. No offense."

"None taken," Catherine chuckled. "But the big guy's all yours. Consider it a training exercise."

"Thanks, Cath. Thanks a lot!"

* * *

Grissom walked down the hallway, his fingers playing nervously with his file. He needed to apologize, at least according to Catherine. She had entered his office, plopped down in a chair and asked him pointedly if pissing off Sara was a deliberate effort or a natural talent.

The statement caught him by surprise. After proclaiming his innocence, Catherine had proceeded to explain to him why Sara was upset. He apparently had compounded his error by pointing out she didn't need him to hold her hand when she was insulted.

"Get off it, Gil. Not even you are that dense," she fumed, ignoring his warning look. "You stood by while her work was dismissed because she was a woman, then you tell her to be a good little girl and go bat her pretty eyes at some big slob to get him to help us."

"I didn't," he insisted, but dropped his eyes to the assignments in his hand. Had he? It hadn't been an intentional slight. He'd been too distracted by the mayor's irritating page to pay attention to her mood.

Looking sheepishly at Catherine, he promised to apologize, but as he approached the Layout Room, he wasn't entirely sure how to proceed. People accused him of being an enigma, but she was at least as much as one. To him anyway.

While Sara could get emotionally involved in cases, and had a notorious temper, she could also be evasive about her feelings. People might know something had upset her, but she rarely volunteered the reasons why. Even when something was clearly bothering her, she would insist she was fine. Why?

When he'd returned from his surgery, he'd expected Sara to be angry with him. He knew she hadn't been pleased by his response to her earlier dinner invitation. Instead, she'd been polite and professional, if not exactly friendly.

The entire situation was as confusing now as it had been when she first asked him to dinner. In hindsight, Grissom realized he could have handled that encounter better, but at the time he had been too distracted by his hearing troubles.

He'd had plenty of time to reflect on that day while he recovered from surgery. She'd been acting unusual after the explosion, from denying her injuries to her pulling a gun on a suspect. Had Sara's invitation been another fluke? It seemed that way; she'd never brought it up again.

Considering all the emotional and professional complications a relationship with Sara would entail, it would be best if they didn't get involved. It would be easier and safer. It was better this way.

Definitely.

Entering the Layout Room, he found Sara intently going over the photos, pausing occasionally to jot down some notes. Calling out softly as he entered, Grissom walked to the opposite side of the table and leaned forward.

"How did it go?"

"Professor Brandenburg was out of town. I have an appointment with him in the morning. It was the earliest I could get in."

Grissom nodded, fiddling with the file in his hand. That last sentence had clearly been a pre-emptive strike; she actually expected to be criticized. He gave her a forced smile.

"Good. I'm sure you can handle it."

"You're not coming?" Sara asked pointedly, looking up from her notes.

"No." Even if he didn't have a follow-up appointment with Dr. Roth tomorrow, he would have declined. If he had any questions, he could contact the professor himself at a later date. Grissom didn't want her to think he doubted her abilities, and he knew he had given her a reason to think that way, even if it had been unintentional.

"Can I help you with something?" she asked when he remained silent.

He tried another forced smile. Grissom shifted, then pointed to the folder in his hand. "There's been a breaking-and-entering over on Oakwood. The only thing missing is a stuffed cat."

"A toy?"

"No. As in Whisker's remains," he said, passing her the folder.

"You're pulling me off this murder to investigate a stolen dead cat?" she asked, her disbelief barely masking her pain.

"No! I thought you'd like it. I figured you might want a short break. Get some fresh air. If you don't want it, I'll give it to Warrick when he gets back from his carjacking."

"If he's on another case, I'll take it."

"If you're busy with this ..."

"I'll take it," she stated calmly, holding out her hand for the file.

Grissom sighed as he passed the folder over, giving an apologetic shrug. He had thought Sara would appreciate the bizarre case. It wouldn't take long, and she usually liked the out of the ordinary ones. Instead, she thought he was punishing her. Pausing at the doorway, he winced slightly when he noticed her abrupt motions as she packed away the evidence. He wondered when their friendship had deteriorated to this point, sighing as he admitted the answer to himself.

"Sara … you're … an … asset to the lab."

"Thanks."

* * *

Sara pulled her Yukon into the driveway of a large Tudor-style house, knowing she was early for the appointment. She was anxious to get to work on the case, and hoped the mathematician would be able to shed some clues on it. After returning from the case of the stolen cat, she'd tackled the equations again, but had made little progress.

She told herself she was being paranoid as she followed the secretary's directions to head to a side door. It was probably the entrance to an office, and wasn't intended as a put down. With the way this week was turning out, she wouldn't discount it, though. After ringing the bell, she scanned the area. While the neighborhood wasn't on the same scale as Summerlin, this house wouldn't have come cheaply.

A dour-looking woman opened the door, interrupting her examination. After introducing herself, Sara was escorted through a small room – complete with file cabinets, a desk and couch – into a larger room. From the setup, she gathered this had originally been used as a guest or an in-law suite. The anteroom would have been a sitting area, this room would have been the bedroom, and one of the doors on the far wall would lead to a bathroom.

The unpleasant woman told her to wait, saying the professor's therapy session had run late. Her displeasure in Sara's arriving early wasn't lost on the CSI. Walking around the room, she eyed the electronics with envy. Walking over to the fireplace, she noted the various diplomas and certificates over the mantle. If nothing else, the guy had an impressive education.

Turning her attention to the rest of the room, she tried to see if there were any clues about her host. Everything was oversized; the room had a 12-foot high ceiling, the doorways were taller than normal, and the antique carved desk and leather chairs were massive. She wondered if the intention was to intimidate visitors.

"May, when that officer gets here, send her to the kitchen and tell her to help herself to whatever's in there."

"Actually, I'm early," Sara said, turning around. Coming out of the bathroom was a very startled and very nude man looking up from pulling a plastic bag off the cast on his left hand. She dropped her head quickly, fighting the urge to chuckle. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him quickly hobble to the desk to grab a knee brace off of it.

"Nice to meet you. I'm embarrassed," he said, a slight Southern accent coloring his voice. "You'll excuse me if I don't shake your hand," he added, as he backed towards the bathroom, the brace held strategically in front of him.

Keeping her humor in check, Sara dropped down in one of the chairs, deciding the oversized furniture suited their owner. A few minutes later, the man returned, wearing casual attire along with a deep blush. If she hadn't of noticed his normal skin tone before, she would have thought he had a bad sunburn.

"Professor Brandenburg? Sara Sidle, Las Vegas Crime Lab. Thank you for seeing me," Sara said, trying to maintain a professional image. The mathematician approached sheepishly, an apologetic smile lighting up his face.

"Yes, well, I don't imagine you were expecting to see so much of me," he said, his eyes twinkling with amusement. They were such a deep green, she first suspected he was wearing contact lenses. "I do apologize for that. I hope I didn't offend."

Sara found a smile trying to creep up despite her attempts to keep it down. She recognized his type. The man practically dripped charisma. He probably was the captain of the football team in high school, able to get away with any transgression with a smile.

"In this job, I've seen worse," she said, realizing belatedly how insulting that could be construed.

"So I'm not as bad as a two-week-old corpse? That's something, I suppose." His smile was teasing, but Sara resisted returning it. The green eyes widened in amusement as he took a seat.

"What can I do to help the Crime Lab?" he asked kindly. "Computer troubles?"

"Math actually. We were hoping you could decipher these," she said, handing him a sample photograph. "I haven't been able to make any headway."

Taking the photo, he leaned back in his chair, rubbing the cast over his chin thoughtfully. "I'm not surprised."

"I beg your pardon?"

"These forms are rarely used. It's easier to work with cosines and sines," Brandenburg said. Looking up, he offered her a contrite smile. "I have four sisters. I would never imply anything that stupid."

Opening a drawer, he pulled out a notepad, and began making notes. He paused briefly, giving Sara another friendly smile. "What is your background? Criminal justice?"

"Theoretical physics. Harvard."

The mathematician stopped, looking over the top of the photograph in his hand. Leaning forward, he whispered conspiratorially, his eyes dancing with mirth.

"Knowing the city needs someone who can do Lorentz transforms and understands the tunneling effect doesn't really inspire confidence. I hate to see what type of crime scenes you work."

"There's more to physics than relativity and quantum mechanics," she said, raising an eyebrow in a silent challenge.

"I'm sure there is," he said, managing to make the statement sound suggestive, causing Sara to blush. "How did you get stuck in Vegas?"

"We actually have one of the best labs in the country."

"Really?" he asked, cocking his head as he examined the photo. "Are these written in blood? That's something you don't see every day. At least, I don't," he joked, noticing the stacks of folders she brought. "There's more? Let's move to the kitchen."

He politely helped her with the files, escorting her through the anteroom into the kitchen. She quickly understood why he wanted to move there: the room was huge, with long granite counters running along the walls and forming a large island. Besides a big bowl of fruit, they were mainly bare.

Directing her to a barstool, he moved the few containers off the island, clearing room for them to spread out the photographs. Sara arranged them in piles, according to which wall they came from, while her host moved to the cupboards.

"Help yourself to something to drink," he said, placing a box of cookies and a glass in front of her and pointing to the fridge. "I'd offer you coffee, but I can't stand the stuff. I'm afraid I don't have any in the house."

Drawing up another stool, he started looking through the photos as Sara went to get a drink. The fridge was equally bare. The beer was tempting, but she knew caffeine would be more effective, not to mention professional, than alcohol. Grabbing the pitcher of tea, she poured a glassful, and went back to join her host.

"Do you have overall shots? That show the entire wall?"

"Here," she said, reaching over to open a folder. "There was writing on four walls in each of three rooms. Each stack is from a different wall."

"Odd," he muttered, writing down some notes. "This is going to take some time."

"If you'll let us know your hourly rate, I can submit a bill to the city."

"You couldn't afford me," he said with a knowing smile. "Will the city cover meals? I don't have much in the way of food in the house, and you wouldn't want to eat anything I cooked."

"That's easy enough," she said lightly.

"You haven't seen how much I eat," he said softly. "I have very … healthy … appetites."

"The city will cover meals, Professor Brandenburg," Sara replied, once again fighting the urge to return his smile. It was infectious.

"Max is much shorter," he said with a wink.

"Yes it is. Doctor," she replied, her own smile finally making an appearance.

Brandenburg chuckled, raising his eyebrows playfully, then turning his attention back to the photos. After several minutes, he started flipping through the stacks in a noticeable pattern, a curious look forming.

"Now that's twisted," he said, giving Sara a deep smile. "Literally."

* * *

Walking through the hallways, Grissom ignored Catherine's 'I told you so' looks, as well as the laughter coming from the labs. It seemed as if everyone was joking about his sending Sara to flirt with an oversized, retired consultant. More accurately, the source of amusement was what her reaction to it would involve.

At least now he understood Catherine's concerns. Earlier, he'd only considered the professional aspect of the assignment. It might be an unpleasant job, and she might not like the experience, but he had no doubts about Sara's ability to carry it out.

He hadn't considered the fact she might find it personally offensive.

Heading into the break room, he gave the male members of the team a disapproving look as they smothered their laughter. Grissom chose to ignore Catherine's exaggerated glance at the clock. Shift would start in a few minutes, but Sara wasn't here.

Usually, she arrived well before the start of shift, not only to chat with co-workers on the swing shift, but also to leisurely review her notes from the previous day's work over a cup of coffee. Trying not to read any significance to her not being early, Grissom walked over to the coffee pot, sniffing the contents cautiously. Deciding the sludge hadn't reached toxic levels yet, he poured a cup, turning around in time to see Greg go bounding by the doorway.

Looking out the window, he saw the lab tech reaching out to help Sara. Together, the two carried in a large box, similar to the ones they used to store evidence. On top of it were stacked books and rolls of paper. Perched on the very top was a large brown bag.

"Thanks, Greg," she said as they set their burden down on the break room table.

"Present from Gustav-Maximilian?" Nick teased, snickering in his coffee until he caught Grissom's look.

"Oh, man, you know that guy got picked on when he was a kid," Warrick said.

"You'd think so," Sara said.

"Everything go okay?"

"Yeah, Cath. Max rocks."

Grissom turned to look at Catherine, his eyebrow going up slightly. He knew Sara could handle the project, and her perky mood wasn't lost on her friends. Catherine merely shrugged.

"That's quite a load ya got there, Sar. You must have had to do a lot of flirting."

"Hey, Nicky, you know how seriously I take my job. I threw myself into it," she said, enjoying the startled looks from around the table. She ignored Grissom's troubled stare.

"So he's a big guy?" Nick asked, unable to resist the urge to tease again.

Sara looked up, turning to stare at him. Instead of a rebuke, a sly smile broke out. Leaning back, she crossed her arms and gave her friend a wicked look.

"Yeah, actually he is. But size isn't everything," she said with a wink, waiting until her meaning registered. "You should know that."

"Hey!"

Catherine darted her eyes around the room. Everyone had turned to stare at Sara. Grissom in particular seemed shocked, his mug of coffee held halfway to his mouth. They had expected her to be upset, not making bawdy jokes about the guy. And how exactly did she know anything to make jokes about?

"I take it he was able to help?" she asked, trying to bring the conversation back to the case.

"Oh, yeah," Sara said in open admiration, causing Grissom to give her quizzical look. "Wait until you see this. It's wild."

"You've been busy," Catherine said, looking at the stack of materials the younger woman was taking out of the box.

"Yeah, I was there all day. Just left," she said. When she noticed the others looking at her damp hair, she shrugged. "I took a shower after I woke up."

The rest of the team exchanged another shocked look as the implications of her statement sank in. Seeing the open mouths around the room, she rolled her eyes and picked up a book. "Some of the reference materials Max lent me are in other languages. I took a nap while he translated some passages that might be relevant."

"So, what's in the bag?" Greg asked.

"Lunch. I think. Max packed it for me while I got dressed."

"Okay," Grissom said, holding up a hand. He didn't like the direction this conversation was heading, but knew he was in no position to comment on it.

"Sara, grab some coffee, then set that up in the Layout Room. Catherine, check with Al and Tox, see what they have. Warrick, go with Vega. He's getting a warrant for your shooting case. Nick, hit-and-run on the Strip. When you get done with those, get back here and get to work on this murder. Greg, get to work on those blood samples. I'll go check with Jacqui."

Catherine watched as Grissom left the room, then she turned to give Sara a pointed look, but the younger woman merely smiled innocently at her. Gathering up her supplies, Sara headed to the Layout Room, her upbeat mood evident in her stride.

* * *

"Tell me you have something."

"Sorry, Jim," Grissom said as he exited the Print Lab. "We lifted 17 sets of prints from the victim's apartment. One set was the victim's, one belonged to the apartment manager, and there haven't been any hits on the others yet."

"Probably clients. Guy ran his insurance business from the apartment. People in and out all the time, according to the neighbors. No one remembers any vampires, though."

"Our Count would have been taking a to-go container with him," Grissom said.

"Yeah. We're checking old cases. No hits on math equations, whether in blood or not. We're getting a list of bodies missing half their blood."

"But if the body had been exposed to the elements or to predators…"

"There'd be no way to know if they had been drained," Brass said.

"Hey, guys," Catherine called. "Tox narrowed it down, so to speak. The warfarin used is a typical prescription strength, not rat poison. The bad news is that every hospital, pharmacy and nursing home in the country would have it. Doc says it was one large ingestion, about 30 hours before he died."

"I'll go see what I can find out about any warfarin heists," Brass said, nodding goodbye to the others.

Catherine followed Grissom to the DNA lab, where Greg handed over a printout.

"Ran the immunoassays series. Confirmed the two blood samples in the turkey baster match the crime scene. One came from the victim, the other matched the blood on the walls. Once the DNA results are done, I'll check CODIS and our internal database. See if the blood on the walls matches any of our old cases."

"Thanks," Catherine called, trailing behind Grissom, who was scratching his beard absentmindedly.

"So, somewhere there's a body missing up to half of its blood, and as far as we know, we know nothing about it. And someone has half of our victim's blood, saving it for his next scene," he said as he entered the Layout Room.

Both of them stopped once they were inside the room. On the walls, Sara had pinned up a three-by-four grid of large multi-colored printouts, each page corresponding to a wall in the apartment. On each page, the equations were broken down into sections, each in a different color.

"What the hell?" Catherine muttered as she scanned the papers.

"There was a pattern after all," Grissom added.

"Oh, yeah. There was nothing random about this," Sara said walking back to the grid. "Spirals. Of spirals. Each wall of equations can be broken down into sections. Starting with the north wall in each of the rooms, the top section of equations describes a type of spiral. The bedroom has a logarithmic spiral, the bathroom a parabolic spiral, the living room is the spiral of Archimedes," she said, pointing out each section.

"Now, move to the second section of equations on the east wall in another room. The equations are continued. Move to the third section of the south wall in the next room, and you get the next piece. Head back to the west wall in the first room, and the pattern continues."

"A spiraling spiral," Grissom said, examining the printouts in detail. "But I don't follow how he's getting from one section to the next."

"The killer skipped steps. You can't get directly from where he left off on one wall to the next section. Max wrote out all the missing steps," she said, pulling out a stack of printouts, and handing him a copy.

"So, it's not likely he did this off the top of his head," he said, flipping through the pages, still somewhat lost.

"Exactly. What's even weirder is the killer changed the equations into more complicated forms. Normally, a spiral can be described really simply using polar coordinates. But our guy didn't stick with those easy forms," she said, pulling out another thick stack of printouts for each of her colleagues. "Max wrote out the steps necessary to transform the equations from their original form to the form our killer used. It makes no logical sense. They are far more complicated that way."

"Man, I thought I knew trig identities," Catherine said, raising her eyebrows dramatically as she flipped through the pages.

"Yeah. Those aren't well known. They're like a type of mathematical trivia. There's no reason to use them. There are a lot easier trigonometric equations that would serve the same purpose."

"Or the killer's hiding a message within the message," Grissom said, setting down the printouts.

"Well, he knows his math."

"Maybe not," Sara added, pointing to a highlighted section of equations. "He's made mistakes. Some of those trig equations are undefined at certain values. The original forms wouldn't be. And there are other mistakes. Here. This should be the inverse cosecant of X squared. Instead, he's squared the inverse cosecant of X. Big difference."

"So, what do we have? Transcription errors?" Grissom wondered.

"That's what Max and I thought. The killer figured out his pattern in advance, wrote it down and then painted them on the walls at the scene. In the process, he copied some of it incorrectly, But some of the mistakes are real," she said, pointing out an example on one of the printouts. "That's totally wrong."

"He'd have the time to copy this. It would take hours for the blood to collect in the chest cavity before he sucked it out," Catherine pointed out, noticing Grissom's odd looks whenever Sara called the mathematician by his given name. "He's using 'X' for polar equations? I thought you stuck with r and theta for those?"

"Normally you do. But they're just variables. You could use anything you want as long as you know what you mean; it doesn't change the equations."

"What about the rest of the formulas?" he asked, pointing to the remaining colored sections.

"Other polar forms. Cardioids, limaçons, cissoids, lemniscates," she said, pausing when she saw the confused looks on their faces. Opening another folder, she pulled out additional papers. "You probably covered this in your second semester of calculus in college."

"It's been a few years since I was a freshman," Grissom said evenly, looking at the printouts.

"Yeah, and you've probably never seen them since. The names are based on what the graphs of the functions look like. Cardioids look like hearts, if you kind of turn them around. Lemniscates look like bows, limaçons look like snails, and the ivy-looking things are cissoids. We made printouts of what these all look like when they're graphed. There are also graphs of the mistakes, in case they weren't really mistakes."

"So what does it all mean?" the blonde asked.

"A guy with a polar fixation?" Sara ventured.

"That's any guy," Catherine sighed, ignoring Grissom's stare.

"He's spiraling out of control?"

"Interlocking spirals. DNA?"

"He's plain crazy?"

"We don't have enough to go on," Grissom said, giving Sara a sharp look at her last reply. "Anything else?"

"Yes. Max provided some reference materials on the trig identities used," she said, pointing out some of the books. "He also provided backgrounds on the different spirals and shapes the killer used. There's translations for those books," she said indicating some thick folders. "He's checking with some friends who are math historians. Seeing if there's any significance to these equations."

"Okay. Let me know when you hear anything. I'm going to go check on the bugs I pulled from the victim," he said.

"You did good, kiddo," Catherine said with a friendly smile.

"You should be thanking Max," she said with a shrug. "I'll be meeting him later. You should come along; you'd like him."

"Yeah," she said in disbelief. "You're not getting out of it."

Sara gave her a puzzled look before she started chuckling softly.

_TBC_


	3. Ch 3

**Cardinality  
****Summary:** A serial killer is stalking the citizens of Las Vegas. Started out as a case file but the G/S aspect demanded equal representation. This is the safe version for this site. The original version can be found at my web site.  
**Rating:** R for subject matter  
**A/N**: No real spoilers. Many thanks to Burked for teaching me how to be a serial killer, among many other things.  
**Disclaimer**: Obviously, I don't own anything related to CSI. If I did, certain characters would be getting more screen time – together!

* * *

"_I cannot help it; in spite of myself, infinity torments me."_ – Alfred de Musset

**Chapter 3**

While the others gathered their selections from the Chinese carryout, Grissom discreetly tracked Sara as she grabbed her bagged meal and a bottle of water from the refrigerator and took a seat next to him. When she opened the bag, she cocked her head in confusion as she removed a note, nearly choking when she started to laugh after reading it.

"Joke. You had to be there," was all Sara would say, smirking when the others turned to watch her.

Grissom wondered what an acquaintance could have written that would get Sara to react so happily. It had been some time since he'd seen her in such an animated mood. She used to joke around a lot when she first came to the lab. When did that change?

He watched curiously as she folded the paper back up and leaned forward to slip the note in the rear pocket of her jeans. A sharp kick to his shin drew his attention away from Sara's posterior. Looking over, he saw Catherine shaking her head at him in a pathetic manner.

"Okay, guys," he said. "The mayor and our new sheriff want answers yesterday. Greg's confirmed the two sources of blood in the baster match the writing and the victim. We know the warfarin used was standard prescription strength. Brass is looking for leads. Catherine?"

"I checked the local art supply houses. Only three of them carry brushes with 2-inch sheep hair. We're getting their sales records. I'll go through them. Unfortunately, several of the specialty Asian markets carry the brushes as well. Some of these places are Mom-and-Pop operations. They don't have the best records."

"Work with what you can get. We don't even know that the killer bought the brushes locally," Grissom said, turning to Warrick.

"I got tire prints from the alleyway, but there's a lot of traffic through there. It leads to a parking lot used by another apartment building. I checked the stairways and fire escape. No sign of blood anywhere."

"But there were blood drops by the dumpster," Grissom clarified.

"Maybe the killer threw the baster from the window," Greg suggested. "Any drops in the alleyway could have been covered up by traffic through there."

"That's possible," Sara said, after recalling the layout of the apartment. "The dumpster would have been visible from the bedroom window. There was plenty on blood spatter on the sills. Is there anyway to tell if those drops came from a brush or a baster?" she asked Catherine.

"Not really."

"After Greg runs the agglutination enzymes from the blood samples on the sills, we'll know. If it came from the baster, there's a chance it'll have traces of both blood types," Grissom said, nodding to the lab tech, before looking back to Warrick.

"Well, I've got the victim's mail and am checking his phone records. Nothing so far. The trashcans were all empty. The only prints were the victim's," he added.

"I hauled in all the contents of the dumpster. So far, I found a couple of items with blood on them, but they're all consistent with transfer when the baster was ditched. I'm checking them all, though," Nick added, pausing to grab a forkful of lo mein. "I printed the dumpster. Lots of partials and smudges. Jacqui doesn't know if she'll be able to get anything from them, but she's trying."

"Sara's mathematician found a pattern to the equations, but we have no idea what it means. Anything else?" he asked, turning to watch her.

"I brought in the vic's computer. So far, I've gone through his e-mail and business documents. Nothing's jumping out."

"So, we have a ton of evidence, and none of it's leading us anywhere," Catherine muttered. "Bugs telling you anything?"

"Not yet, but the body was dead at least one full day before we found it on Monday. We know the warfarin was ingested roughly 30 hours before the victim died."

"So the vic was poisoned sometime before early Friday morning," Sara added. "The question is how do you get a lethal dosage of warfarin in someone? It's slow-acting. If he had been forced to take it, the killer would have to hang around and make sure he didn't call for help. There weren't any signs the victim was forcibly subdued."

"Maybe he was held at gunpoint. Or maybe he didn't know he'd been poisoned," Warrick said. "How much are we talking, Cath?"

"Doc's guessing about 15 pills were used. They're fairly small. Could have been slipped into something. A drink, maybe, or food."

"Warfarin is absorbed quickly through the stomach and the intestines. Even if there's any food left in his digestive tract, there's no way to test it to see if had been laced. Warrick, get samples from everything in the victim's kitchen. See if anything's been tampered with," Grissom said.

"I'll check any food sources in the dumpster," Nick said, pausing at a chirping sound, as the team all checked their phones.

"It's mine. Sidle," she said heading towards the doorway, a slight smile forming as she listened to the conversation. "You've been working on this all night? … Did he help? … Thanks, no, I appreciate it, Max. You've been a big help … Thanks, but I don't think I can make it this morning … No, I'll be pulling a double shift on this case … Yeah, I should be able to meet you tomorrow morning … Yeah … bye."

"Max?"

"Yes," she said, giving Grissom an odd look. "He tracked down some math historians he knows. They didn't know of anything special about the equations. One woman in New Zealand recommended a guy in Tbilisi. Apparently the world expert on polar equations. Max just got off the phone with him. There's no significance to those formulas that anyone can figure out."

"Tbilisi? Former Soviet Republic of Georgia? How much is this guy billing us?" Warrick asked in shock.

"He's not charging, as long as we provide meals. Speaking of which," she said, pulling out some receipts from her pocket and handing them to Grissom, who looked surprised at the amounts. "He eats a lot."

"I'll say."

"Damn, Sar! You really know how to make an impression," Nick said, shoving her arm playfully.

"You don't know the half of it."

"How could I find out?" Greg asked wistfully. "I'd settle for a quarter of it."

"Hey! People, we still have a case here," Grissom said irritably. When the others turned to look at him expectantly, he realized he had nothing more to add. Grabbing up his meal, he got up to head back to office. "Let's get back to work. We have two victims who need us to solve their cases."

"Maybe not," Sara added cautiously, sensing she was the cause of Grissom's bad mood. She continued when he stopped to look back at her. "We're assuming the blood on the walls came from another victim. But it could have come from some other source. A mortuary, or a hospital. The killer could have had access to biohazard materials."

"Good call. Look into it," he said, heading to his office in confusion.

What was going on? Sara was planning on seeing the man again? But the idea had made her furious the day before. It didn't make any sense. Perhaps she was just being polite. He had spent an entire day and night helping them work the case, after all.

Or she was getting even with him for sending her to flirt in the first place? She had to know he wouldn't be comfortable that routine she pulled earlier. Wouldn't she? Did this all go back to his refusing to have dinner with her?

But that wasn't Sara's modus operandi, though. Grissom sat at his desk, deciding not to pursue this line of thinking. He wasn't sure where he stood with Sara. If she wasn't going to make an issue of it, he saw no reason to bring it up.

Especially considering he wasn't sure where he stood with himself.

Everything in his life was different. In the year building up to his surgery, he knew he'd withdrawn from the others. Now that his hearing appeared to be corrected, he wondered how to close that distance. He'd damaged friendships; a quirky joke now and then wouldn't repair that.

On top of that, he felt a weight had been lifted from him; the fear of going deaf had haunted him for a long time. Now that that demon had been exorcised, he found himself looking at life in a new way. Grissom wasn't sure which way he wanted to go. Did he want to return to the relative safety of his old life or did he want to experience something new? He didn't even know if it was a journey he wanted to make by himself.

He may have waited too long for that even to be an option, and that confused him. Things were better this way – for both of them.

Really.

* * *

"Anything interesting?" Catherine asked later that morning.

"Zilch," Sara said, looking up from the computer. "This guy had a pretty basic life. E-mail messages from family and friends. Basic accounting software. Nothing elaborate about any of the files. Not a lot of money, but no real debt, either."

"Any luck tracking down the blood?"

"Not much. Biohazard materials are pretty tightly controlled. I haven't found anything, but I've contacted the Health Department to see if there's been any reported thefts or shortages. They probably won't get back to me before this afternoon."

"That was a good call," she said, pulling up a chair to set beside Sara.

"Thanks. Any luck on your end?"

"So far, the most recent purchase of 2-inch sheep hair brushes was made six months ago. A bulk purchase for a class at the community college."

"Should be easy enough to track those down."

"Yeah. So, what's up?"

"Up with what?" Sara asked hesitantly, suspecting her colleague was curious about her behavior.

"You trying to make him feel bad?" she asked sharply.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Uh, huh."

"Cath," she sighed. "Okay, I didn't want the assignment, but I made the best of it. Turns out Max is actually a nice guy. I'm not going to pretend I didn't enjoy working with him."

"And being catty is part of the fun?"

"Joking with my friends is. I knew the guys were going to give me a hard time about it. I decided to turn it around on them before they could get started."

"Okay," the blonde said softly. "So, you really got along okay with the guy?"

"Yeah."

"What's he like?"

"Really smart. Great sense of humor. A big flirt," she added, raising an eyebrow teasingly. "Very hairy."

Catherine let out an amused snort, as she looked up to see the receptionist, Judy, carry in a large package.

"This was just delivered for you, Sara," she said, giving the CSI an odd look.

"You know your social life is in the pits when the secretary thinks it strange you're getting a package," she sighed as she took the card. A smile broke out, prompting Catherine to ask her what was going on. "It's from Max. He apologizes for not having any coffee at the house, and since we're working a double, he sent over breakfast."

"Just how much flirting did you do?" Catherine sputtered.

"Must have been plenty, 'cause there's enough here for everybody," she said, grinning widely as she took out a large bag of coffee beans and moved to the other contents. "Bagels, different types of cream cheeses, lox, fruit."

"Breakfast?" Greg asked as he wandered in, his eyes widening in surprise. "Whoa! Whose coffee?"

"Mine. Why?"

"Yours? Since when did you spend $50 a pound on coffee?"

"What?" the two women asked in unison.

"Jamaican Blue Mountain – this is prime stuff!" Greg said, eyeing the bag wistfully.

"Go ahead and make a pot," Sara said as she set out the meal, avoiding Catherine's confused stare.

* * *

Warrick headed into the Layout Room, finding Sara going over the printouts intently. After three more days of examining the evidence, they had made little progress. None of the prints lifted where in AFIS. The DNA didn't match anything in CODIS. Catherine had accounted for all the brushes sold recently. No traces of warfarin had been found in the dumpster or in food from the victim's kitchen. There'd been no reported blood missing.

Grissom's bugs had placed the time of death on Saturday, meaning the victim had been poisoned sometime on Thursday. The police had re-interviewed the witnesses, but no one remembered anything unusual happening that day. Brass hadn't had any luck tracking down the source of the warfarin, either.

The equations remained the big mystery. Thanks to the mathematician, they knew what they were, but no one on the team had been able to make any progress determining how they related to the murder.

"See anything?" Warrick asked hopefully, moving to stand beside her.

"Nope. There has to be some reason why the guy did this. Doesn't there? Why pick something like this at random? It took a lot of work to do this. The killer must have planned it in advance. Why?" she said shortly, dropping the stack of printouts down with a huff.

"Beats me. I went over this stuff last night, looking for something. Gave myself a headache."

"Welcome to the club," she sighed.

"What about Brandenburg? Has he been any help?" Warrick said, looking up as Grissom walked into the room.

"Well, yeah," Sara said, with a brief nod. "He's been cool. I've bounced all kinds of ideas off of him. None of them have panned out, but Max has helped with all of them. Good thing he's not billing us. None of us would get a raise this year."

Grissom cocked his head to the side as he walked over to join his CSIs. Sara's admiration for the mathematician had been obvious from her tone of voice. Considering the man's reputation, Grissom was surprised Sara was so taken with him.

Maybe the attraction was professional; after all mathematics and physics were closely related. In many ways, she was a student at heart, always willing to learn something new. This mathematician was retired; he'd have the time to answer her questions. If he were a lonely fellow, Brandenburg would probably appreciate having an eager, young woman focusing on his teachings.

An odd feeling came over Grissom as he remembered when Sara used to reserve that type of attention for him.

"Hey," Sara said when she noticed him.

"Hey," he replied softly, giving his head a brief shake. "Learn anything new?"

"No," she said dejectedly.

"Don't let it get to you. Signature killers have a pattern, but with just one victim, it's hard to tell what they are doing. This," he said, pointing out the equations in the photographs, "could mean any number of things. The message may be in the equations themselves, it could have to do with the branch of math, or it could be more abstract. Without more pieces, we won't know for sure," he explained.

"But more people have to die before we get those pieces," she pointed out.

"Unless we can catch him from other evidence. Have you got anything new?" he asked Warrick.

"Nick and I went over the guy's phone records. Figured the killer had to know the victim somehow. If it was a random poisoning, how would the killer know how to find the victim's home? The vic ordered carryout from the same restaurant every Saturday night up until he died. Nothing on the night he was poisoned, though."

"And I went over his appointment book. Thought he might have had a meal with a client. His last appointment on Thursday was in the late morning at his apartment. Brass talked to the couple – they're getting ready to retire. They just went in to sign some forms. No one had anything to eat," Sara added.

"Okay. Warrick, you and Nick go to that restaurant. Check to see if he came in to pick up any carryout the night he was poisoned. It's an off-chance, but right now that's the only lead we have."

Grissom stayed behind once Warrick left the Layout Room, turning his attention to the neat rows of printouts Sara had attached to the wall. Picking up one of the folders containing the mathematician's notes, he waited as she stretched slowly.

"When was the last time you slept?" he asked, watching her closely. Everyone in the lab routinely pulled doubles, but Sara took it to extremes.

"Yesterday," she stated firmly, focusing her attention on the printouts. "As much as I normally get."

"Okay," he said, giving her a wan smile. Even he noticed the tension rising in her posture. Telling her to get more rest wouldn't be a welcomed comment, even if she could use it. Maybe a diversionary tactic would work.

"Why don't you join Catherine and me for breakfast after shift? We can go over what we know so far," he offered.

"I already have plans. Thanks. Maybe another time."

"These printouts can wait," he said kindly.

Sara turned to look at him briefly before returning her attention back to the equations. "Actually, I'm meeting Max."

"Would you prefer if I went instead?"

"No," she said, darting surprised eyes over to him.

"You have a new idea you want to run by him?" Grissom asked as he turned to give her a puzzled look.

"No, uh, actually we're heading out to Lake Mead. We're having breakfast out there."

"You don't have to do that," Grissom said sharply, causing Sara to turn to stare at him intently. He held up his hands when it seemed she was getting ready to say something.

"Sara, I know this … assignment was … unpleasant. You handled it well. If you'd feel more comfortable if someone else talked to this mathematician, that's understandable. Don't feel you have to continue to … flirt … for this case. No one expects it," Grissom said.

Sara dropped her head, before turning to look at him curiously. A hint of grin formed as she walked over to the wall to examine a graph. "I like Max. He's a nice guy. Neither of us likes to cook, so we catch meals together."

"Oh. I thought you were …" he said, unsure how to continue.

"I was what?" she asked slowly.

"I didn't want you to think you had to do anything … unprofessional … for this case."

"You actually think I'd do something like that? I have never done anything to compromise this lab or a case. Never," she said hotly, turning to face him with an angry expression.

Grissom's mouth hung open in surprise at the exchange. Of course she hadn't. He never implied that she did. Did he? As he tried to figure out how to respond, she let out a long breath, and turned back to her evidence.

"Are we done here?" she asked softly.

"I think we are," Grissom said, pausing at the doorway to look back, a baffled expression on his face.

* * *

"They're just roses. They won't bite," Catherine said as she entered Grissom's office. She smothered a laugh when he gave her a dirty look and went back to the stacks of paper on his desk. Ever since a vase of old-fashioned roses had been delivered to Sara at the start of shift, he'd been squirreled away in here.

After joking off the expensive present with the guys, Sara had moved the vase to a discreet corner of the break room. Still, the fragrance from the damask variety wafted through the lab, a subtle reminder that at least one person on the team was managing to have a social life – albeit one that nobody could understand.

Catherine had to admit she was intrigued that Sara hadn't told the guy to knock off the presents; she wasn't the type to be impressed by superficial gifts. She never would have pegged the brunette as the type to be interested in an older man. Well, one who was that much older.

"I should have taken her up on her request to go meet Max in her place," she joked. "Flowers, incredible coffee, meals, trips to the lake. He knows how to show a girl a good time."

"He's a leech," Grissom muttered under his breath.

"What did you say?" Catherine asked in surprise.

Grissom looked up, then dropped his pen on his files. Rubbing a hand over his chin, he regarded his friend cautiously. He couldn't believe Sara hadn't recognized the mathematician for what he was. She wasn't likely to listen to him, but maybe she would listen to another woman.

"He's a leech. Come on, Catherine. A retired man going after a much younger woman. He's sending her expensive gifts, monopolizing her time, taking advantage of the fact we need a mathematician for this case. He's a leech. Sara should be … careful," he said, picking up his pen to resume work.

The blonde resisted the urge to laugh. While there could be some truth to his statement, she doubted Sara would fall for it. And she found the irony amusing. "Yeah, what are the odds Sara would find an older professor through work who would actually have a real interest in her."

Grissom paused in his paperwork, and looked at his friend over the top of his glasses. Shaking his head subtly, he returned to work. The man could have a real interest in Sara, he admitted to himself begrudgingly. She had her assets.

But that didn't mean she had any feelings for the mathematician. There wasn't any significance to her going to the lake with him yesterday. She probably felt sorry for him. He didn't have any family in the area. She was just being nice.

Probably.

"Look, Gil, have you considered the fact that they might actually be friends? He's translated some articles for her that haven't been printed in English yet. They went to a talk on astrophysics at the university. They caught some meals together."

"He's sending her expensive gifts," he repeated. "How much has he spent on coffee alone? He's sent about five pounds of that stuff to the lab by now."

"I notice you like it," she said, smirking as she stared at the mug on his desk. "You know this guy has a reputation as a flirt. You know, a fella can flirt all the time, but it doesn't mean he'll ever commit to anything serious," she added pointedly.

"Do you need a case to work on?" Grissom asked bluntly.

"I'm on a break. Besides, I'm supposed to meet Doc in a few minutes to go over my hit-and-run, then I'm heading over to check some things at the scene," she said. "Look, I'll give you a clue, Gil. It's nice to have a guy show an interest in you, even if it's just in fun. And it's not like anyone else is paying her any compliments."

* * *

"Sara, Warrick, let's go," Grissom said later that night, sticking his head in the doorway of the Drying Room. They were going over the effects of the victim, trying to find something that might have been overlooked the first time. "We've got another victim. Cath and Nick will met us there when they get back from their cases."

They gathered extra supplies, and then the trio drove to a warehouse on the outskirts of town. After checking in, they crossed under the yellow tape and walked into the center of the warehouse where floodlights shone on a grisly sight.

"Oh, my God," Sara whispered.

"The killer is evolving. This is more efficient. Quicker access to the blood, and he could get more of it this way," Grissom explained.

Shining his flashlight around the scene, he walked over to examine the decapitated body of a black male. He was hanging upside-down, suspended from chains wrapped around the legs and draped over a girder. Underneath the body, a large basin held the victim's head, a look of terror frozen on his face. The body swayed eerily, his fingers dragging ghostly patterns in remnants of blood in the bottom of the basin.

"He's wearing some sort of uniform," Sara pointed out, ignoring the sharp metallic smell.

"Guy's Jim Smith, 27. Night watchman," Brass said, reading his notes. "His girlfriend tried to call him earlier. When he didn't answer, she called the security company. They sent out a Mr. Tom Sanchez," he pointed to a shaken man sitting on a box, a paramedic treating a head injury, "who passed out when he found the body, and called us when he came around. Be careful if you're around the side door. Mr. Sanchez left his dinner there."

"Warrick, start processing the perimeter of the scene. Sara," he said, passing her the camera equipment with a slight smile. "The walls await you."

Swinging the bag over her shoulder, she grabbed her kit and walked towards the far wall that Brass had pointed out. Setting down her equipment, she swept her flashlight over the metal surface, her head cocked in concentration as she tried to decipher the writing.

It started high on the left side of the wall, working diagonally lower as it came across towards the center. From there to the right side, the equations ran is a swath starting about seven feet from the floor, working most of the way down the wall.

Like the first scene, the writing overlapped, and portions were scratched out, obscuring what was underneath. Unlike the first scene, this seemed vaguely familiar to Sara. She swung her light on another trek over the wall, trying to find a pattern to the equations.

A quick walk around the interior confirmed all the writing was confined to that one wall. Returning to her starting point, she pulled out her equipment and began photographing various shoeprints in the dust around the base of the wall.

Once that was done, she moved to the right side of the wall, and began the slow process of taking bracketed shots of all the writing. After about 30 minutes, Grissom walked over to join her, watching as she proficiently worked the scene.

Rubbing his hand over his chin, he wondered whether she was upset with him. The encounter in the break room the other day had left him bewildered. There had been a definite ribald nature to her comments. He didn't believe she'd done anything unprofessional, but he didn't understand why she made the comments. He certainly hadn't meant to be insulting when he talked to her in the Layout Room.

He turned his attention back to the walls, but only for a moment. This was well out of his league. In addition to complicated formulas, the killer had scrawled out diagrams. They looked like odd loops within loops, but the lines tracing the shapes had arrowheads. Some ran clockwise, while others ran counterclockwise.

"Hey," Sara called out when she saw him.

"Hey."

"I think our perp climbed on those boxes over there," she said, nodding first to a stack of crates, and then to the writing high on the wall.

"Nick's on his way. I'll send him over to check when he gets here. This is different from the last scene," he said, looking at Sara for confirmation.

"Yeah. I think this is complex analysis, but I'm not sure. I only touched on it briefly in college," she said, stopping to load another roll of film in the camera.

"Complex analysis?"

"Calculus for the complex number system."

"There's a special type of calculus for imaginary numbers?" he asked in surprise, giving her a brief smile when she turned to him.

"Yeah," she said, moving the scale to the next section. When she looked up again, she saw his confused look. "We used a little bit of it in my electronics classes. Because of the phase and angular components of alternating currents, imaginary numbers pop up."

"Of course they do," he said, raising an eyebrow in amusement. "I'll take your word for it. What do you recognize?"

"See that thing that looks like an upside-down capital-ell?" Sara said, nudging Grissom's flashlight to shine on a -shape.

"It's the Greek letter gamma. I do remember that much," he said in a mock-pout, earning him a hint of a grin.

"It's used in complex analysis to designate a contour. That's a collection of joined line segments," she explained.

"Any idea what any of this means?"

"Haven't got a damn clue. Or how it relates to the last set of equations. I'll call Max in the morning and see if he can help."

"Fine," he said oddly, turning to walk away. "I'll send Cath over to help you swab the walls when she gets here."

* * *

"Greg ran the assays on the blood from the walls. It's from our first victim," Catherine said as she entered the break room. Sara looked up from her folder, nodding slowly.

"So, we have two dead bodies and three types of blood. You guys find anything useful at the crime scene?"

"Doesn't look promising. They don't store high-value items at the warehouse, so they don't have any security cameras. Lots of truck traffic through there. Tire tracks are too mixed up to make any sense of. There are hundreds of prints. It'll take Jacqui a long time to compare them all to those we lifted from the first scene," Catherine sighed.

"And no one besides the security guard was in the area. No witnesses to interview," Sara added.

"Brass is talking to the girlfriend, trying to find out what he's eaten in the last 30 hours. The blood in the basin never congealed; I'm guessing it's a safe bet we'll find a shitload of warfarin in his system."

"Nick lifted some shoeprints off of the crates. He's trying to match them up to a brand."

"Goodie. We get to play Cinderella with all the workers," the blonde said sarcastically.

"I'm going over what we know about the victims. So far, I haven't found anything to link them, other than the fact they're both male. Different age group, different race. Wallace was an insurance salesman. Smith wasn't a client. They lived in different neighborhoods. Hung with different crowds, no pun intended," Sara said.

"What about the writing?"

"Completely different branch of mathematics, even though both are marginally related to calculus. I called Max, and he is coming over later this morning when he gets out of physical therapy," she said, flipping a page in the folder.

"Seems like you made a friend."

"Hmmm?"

"He's not getting paid, but this guy is going to a lot of trouble to help us," Catherine said lightly.

"I think he's finding retirement boring."

"And Max finds you interesting?"

"I wouldn't know, Cath," she said, her lips turning up slightly.

"Uh, huh. And who did you meet for breakfast the other day?"

"He's a friend. I wanted to thank him for helping."

"Uh, huh. And that explains the expensive coffee, breakfast for the whole lab, the flowers?"

"He's a flirt," Sara sighed.

"Sure he is. And you love the attention," she insisted, causing Sara to smile behind her folder. "I've got to take Linds to the doctor. She's got some sort of bug. I'll be back later. Page me if you need anything."

"All right," she said, turning her attention back to her notes, trying to find what linked their victims to the killer.

_TBC_


	4. Ch 4

**Cardinality  
****Summary:** A serial killer is stalking the citizens of Las Vegas. Started out as a case file but the G/S aspect demanded equal representation. This is the safe version for this site. The original story can be found at my web site.  
**Rating:** R for subject matter  
**A/N**: No real spoilers. Many thanks to Burked for teaching me how to be a serial killer, among many other things.  
**Disclaimer**: Obviously, I don't own anything related to CSI. If I did, certain characters would be getting more screen time – together!

* * *

"_I cannot help it; in spite of myself, infinity torments me."_ – Alfred de Musset

**Chapter 4**

"Good morning, Ichabod, Sara. Find any hoof prints at your scene?" Robbins asked dryly, as he carried the head of their latest victim across the morgue.

"No," Grissom replied in surprise. "Was the cause of death decapitation?"

"Unlike the denizens of Sleepy Hollow, our victim managed to keep his head until after he died. It was severed postmortem. Looks like a large blade was used. My bet would be a machete over a saber, though," the coroner said, pointing out several gouges on the back of the victim's neck. "Took a couple of strikes to detach it. Your killer isn't an expert at beheadings."

"Let's hope we catch him before he gets any more practice."

"What was the cause of death?" Grissom asked.

"Intracranial hemorrhage. Single blow to the back of the head. Died quickly. I've put a rush on the tox screens, but everything seems consistent with warfarin poisoning."

"Any defensive wounds?"

"None that I could find."

"What about the bruising around the elbows and knees?" Sara asked.

"Bruising around the joints is a common sign of warfarin poisoning. Not only does the drug thin the blood, but it actually damages the blood vessels in high doses."

"So, it's easier for a bump or a blow to trigger internal bleeding," Sara concluded.

"Exactly. And then the warfarin prevents the bleeding from stopping."

"Double trouble," she said, moving to examine the neck wounds in more detail.

"Anything else?" Grissom asked.

"Yes. We found a bloody handkerchief in the victim's effects. Nosebleeds are another symptom with a warfarin overdose. From the condition of his nasal cavity, I'd say he had a bad one."

"But the first victim didn't have any outward signs of poisoning," Sara said, "Are we looking at a different dosage, or a different time frame between the poisoning and the killing?"

Robbins shrugged. "Either. Neither. Both. We won't know anything until we get the tox screens back. It could be this victim was more sensitive to warfarin."

Sara leaned against the slab, her brow wrinkled in thought. "It doesn't sound like warfarin is a great choice for a poison. It's slow and it can have warnings."

"That's one of the reasons it's popular in rat poison. It usually isn't all that dangerous to humans," the coroner explained.

"Our killer wanted the blood. This allows him to collect it easily and prevents it from congealing before he's done with leaving his messages," Grissom pointed out. "The anti-coagulant effect of the warfarin may have been more important to him than its lethality."

"So, does the killer know something about drugs or did he just research this?" Sara asked.

"Good question. Warfarin is more lethal when several smaller doses are given over a period of days. Did the killer only have one chance to slip the victims the drugs, or did he mistakenly think one large dose would be more effective?" Robbins asked.

Sara shook her head. "We don't even know how he's getting the drug into the victims yet."

"The killer's been lucky, so to speak. Warfarin works by interfering in the production of prothrombin. It replaces the vitamin K molecules, interrupting the clotting process. If our victims had more vitamin K in their diets, they may have survived the poisoning," Robbins said.

"There's a reason to eat your liver," Grissom said to Sara, giving her an amused look.

"With fava beans?" she asked laughing.

"I have the chianti," Robbins added.

Grissom looked between the two, his amusement turning to puzzlement.

"You haven't seen 'Silence of the Lambs'?" Sara asked in surprise.

"No," he said, wondering why the other two exchanged another look before snickering.

"Oh, well," she replied. "I think I'd rather take my chances with the warfarin than eat anyone's liver. Besides, my green veggies are probably a better source of vitamin K."

Grissom sighed dramatically as his pager went off for the fifth time that morning. A quick check showed this time it came from the sheriff. "Let me know if you find anything else, Al."

* * *

Walking towards his office that afternoon, Grissom rubbed his temple as he contemplated ways of 'losing' his pager. How was he supposed to do his job if he was constantly talking to the paper pushers? Finding Catherine in the Trace Lab, he stopped to give her an upset stare.

"Where have you been?"

"Doctor's office. Lindsey's been sick. Told you twice and e-mailed you."

"Oh, right," he said distractedly, resuming his journey.

"Lindsey's fine. Just a bug. Thanks for asking," Catherine said in a huff.

"Of course she's fine. Everyone in the building would know if she wasn't," Grissom pointed out irritably.

"Oh, somebody's in a good mood today," she said sarcastically, following him into his office and dropping into a chair. She ignored his pointed look as he picked up a folder, reviewing notes from their latest homicide scene. "Meet Max yet? He was supposed to stop by this morning to help Sara."

"So?"

"Figured you'd want to meet Sara's new … friend."

"Why?" he snorted.

"Thought you'd want to meet the 'leech'. Check him out."

"You're reading too much into this, Catherine. Sara wouldn't get involved with someone like that," he said firmly, but looking to her for confirmation. "He just moved to the city last year after retiring. He probably doesn't have many friends here. If Sara wants to be nice to an elderly man, that's her business."

"Right," she said slowly, heading towards the door. "I left Linds in the break room reading while I finished up some tests. I lifted some stray fibers off the victim's uniform. Trace is running a check to see what they are. It's been a long day. Why don't you go home?"

"I have to leave for a meeting with the sheriff and a representative from the mayor's office in a few minutes. I'll head home after that," he said wearily.

"See you tonight, then," she said, heading down the hallway, shaking her head slightly. Spotting Warrick exiting a lab, she changed course towards him. "Hey."

"How's Linds?"

"Fine, just the flu," she said, smiling kindly. "Getting ready to take her home now. What are you up to?"

"Just finished fuming those chains. Not a single print. Killer must have been wearing gloves."

"Damn."

"Cath," he said, stopping suddenly. "I've heard of buying clothes big so your kid can grow into them, but isn't that going overboard?"

She turned to see what he was watching, laughing when she saw her daughter exiting the bathroom, wearing a sweatshirt that came well below her knees. Heading into the break room, they found her taking a seat at the table, a stack of drawings in front of her.

"Hey, kid. How you feeling?" Warrick asked, picking up one of the intricate geometric designs.

"Okay," she sniffled.

"Wow. Those are nice," Cath said, looking up when Sara came in carrying a stack of pizza boxes and a large bag. "Did you do these?"

"Yeah. They're easy to make too, once you know how. Dr. Brandenburg showed me. That's Sara's boyfriend," she said, "Can we stay for lunch?"

"Gee, I don't know. Think there's enough for more than two people?" she snickered as Sara tried to hide her blush.

"I don't know what he ordered," Sara muttered, opening the bag. "Salads. Breadsticks. Fried zucchini. One kid-sized plain cheese pizza. Guess that's for you," Sara said, giving Lindsey a smile as she turned to the boxes. "Black olive and mushroom. Green pepper and onion. Dessert pizza."

"Your boyfriend, huh?" Warrick laughed as he went to get a cup of coffee.

"Well, he's a friend who happens to be a guy," she said, giving him a warning look.

"He's nice, Mom. He let me wear his sweatshirt. And he's really, really big," she said, holding out her arms for emphasis.

"Ah, Linds, you shouldn't go around saying things like that," Catherine said, brushing a lock of hair from her daughter's face.

"Well, they do say honesty is the best policy," a deep voice said behind her.

Closing her eyes and grimacing, Catherine felt herself blushing.

"I'm sorry," she began apologetically, turning around. After a momentary pause, she took a step back in confusion, running her eyes up and down his body, vaguely aware of Warrick's sputtering cough by the coffee machine.

The mathematician had to be well over 250 pounds, she decided, and the tank top and shorts he wore covered very little of it. Sara was right; he was hairy. A wide grin formed as she cocked her head to look towards the blushing brunette and then back to her 'boyfriend'. Damn!

Heavily muscled and standing around 6'7'', he carried his weight very well. With a mop of unruly blond hair and a deep tan, the only indication he wasn't a college-aged surfer were the few wrinkles around his expressive green eyes.

"So you're Dr. Brandenburg," she said airily, flipping her hair back. Watching his eyes dance with amusement, she smiled appreciatively at him. Even without the scarring around his nose, he'd never would have been considered especially handsome, but he had a natural charisma.

"Call me Max."

"Sure thing, Max," she said, running her eyes down his body again.

"Damn, girl," Warrick whispered in Sara's ear. "You like to surprise us, don't you?"

"Max, that's Catherine Willows. This is Warrick Brown," Sara said, fighting the urge to laugh at her colleague's behavior.

"Hey," Warrick said, crossing the room to shake hands. "Thanks for your help on this case."

"You're welcome. I must admit I like a challenge," he said, tilting his head to give Sara a subtle smile, causing her to smirk.

Catherine and Warrick exchanged confused stares as they took seats around the table. The teasing they had subjected Sara to since she took this case suddenly didn't seem as funny. Both realized Sara never corrected their misconceptions about his size or age, and each wondered why.

Brandenburg limped around to take a seat next to Sara, pulling over another chair to rest his injured leg on, taking a moment to adjust his knee brace. Looking up, he saw the two exchanging glances, each making slight shrugs. Sara flashed him a grin when he looked at her.

"Please, help yourself," the mathematician said with an amused smile, indicating the meal. "Your taxes are paying for it."

"Say, Max. I thought you were retired," Catherine said, nibbling on a bread stick.

"I am, for the most part. I sold my consulting company to my employees before I moved out here. I still help them on occasion."

"You look awfully young to be retired," she continued.

"I'm 38."

"Why Vegas?" Warrick asked after giving Sara a shocked look.

"This," he said, pointing to the scarring. "I was helping a friend bring in his boat. There was a tropical storm coming up the coast, and he'd waited too long – storm was pretty rough by then. The wind broke a lashing, causing the boom to come loose. Besides a skull fracture and a serious concussion, it damaged my sinuses. The doctors finally suggested I move somewhere with a lower humidity."

"You know, since all the irrigation was put in, the humidity in the area isn't as low as it used to be," Sara said.

"I know, but it's still better than the coast. I didn't think I'd ever get use to the desert, but I have to admit, there's some spectacular things here," he said, smiling at Sara.

"Oh," Catherine said, exchanging another stare with Warrick. "Uh, did you manage to figure anything out? With the case?"

"It looks like the killer was trying to do some deformations," Max said, after swallowing some salad. "Except the contours he tried it on weren't suitable."

"Uh, huh."

"And in English, that means it doesn't look like this guy is any good in math," he continued. "Simply put, a contour is a collection of joined line segments. A deformation is an equation that can change the shape of some contours. He tried to use it on the wrong type of contours."

Taking the bag that had held their meal and borrowing a marker from Lindsey, Brandenburg drew a circle. "In order to do a deformation, the contour has to be closed. It also has to divide the plane into two parts. Everything that's inside the contour and everything that's outside of it. A simple deformation on this shape would be to double the value of every point. That would give you a bigger circle."

"Wouldn't any closed shape have two parts?" Catherine asked.

"Not necessarily," he said, drawing a sideways eight. "This is closed, but there are three sections. There's one part inside the left loop, one part inside the right loop and everything else. This is one of the shapes he tried to apply a deformation."

"Isn't that a lemniscate?" Warrick asked. "He had one of those bow shapes at the first scene."

"It could be, but not likely. A contour in complex analysis also has a direction associated with it. It has a starting point and an ending point. Regular graphs don't. Besides, he didn't leave any polar equations at this scene, and known of the other contours he used look like one of the polar equations from the other murder."

"We haven't been able to find any solid links between the equations used at the two scenes," Sara added.

"I've never heard of complex analysis before. Is that an obscure branch of math?" Warrick asked. "And those trig identities he used aren't common, either. We looking at a crazy mathematician?"

"What other type is there?" Sara quipped.

"Well, there are mathematicians of limited ability, but they end up as physicists."

"Am I missing something?" Catherine asked shortly, darting her eyes between the two grinning scientists.

"Inter-disciplinary rivals," Warrick explained.

"Really? I thought a theoretical mathematician and a theoretical physicist would have a lot in common."

"There's no need to be insulting," Brandenburg said, a wink softening his harsh tone.

"Theoretical math is bizarre," Sara said.

"Unlike quantum mechanics," he countered. "No offense, but theoretical physics can be considered a very narrow branch of applied mathematics."

"Ha! Pure mathematicians like to brag their work has no use in the real world," Sara added, Brandenburg nodding eagerly in agreement.

"That's true. And to answer your earlier question: complex analysis isn't an obscure branch of mathematics, but it's not as common as statistics or linear algebra. Depending on the school, a math major may cover it as an undergraduate, although many schools consider it a graduate level course."

"So our killer has some familiarity with math."

"Not necessarily. The university library probably has a dozen books on the subject. And whoever wrote this did make mistakes. They're fairly basic. I get the feeling whoever did this doesn't understand some fundamental math," Brandenburg said.

"Someone who's self-taught?" Sara asked.

"Possibly."

A page broke the silence. "I've got to run. Thanks for your help, man," Warrick said, shaking hands again before heading out the door.

"Yeah, you about done, kiddo?" Catherine asked her daughter, who nodded and pulled off the sweatshirt to hand back with a smile. "Okay. Be seeing you around Max."

"Be seeing you, Catherine. You get well soon, kiddo," he said kindly, before turning his attention back to Sara. "So what are you going to do next?"

"I'm heading home to get some sleep before coming back in tonight," she said, covering a yawn. "Sorry about that."

"Do you ever get a night off?" he asked with a grin.

"I'm scheduled off tomorrow, but I'll probably work the overtime."

"How about we grab dinner before you come in?" he asked, resting his head on his hand.

"What?"

"Well, what kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn't offer to take you out on your night off?" he asked playfully, his eyes sparkling when she gave him an embarrassed look.

"Uhm, you know she's just a kid. Nine, I think. I don't know where she got that idea."

"Really?" he chuckled. "Do you have a boyfriend?"

"No," she admitted slowly.

"Are you looking for one?"

"Ah … well …" she began hesitantly.

"Well, how about a … friend … you have dinner with on occasion? Maybe watch a movie with when you're feeling especially merciful?" he asked, giving her playful smile.

"Okay," she said with a grin.

"Good. Now back to dinner tomorrow. Do you like Thai food? A friend of mine is the new head chef over at The Siam Palace. He claims to make the best vegetarian food in the city."

"How did you know I'm a vegetarian?" she asked, turning to look at him in surprise.

"We've had several meals together. You haven't eaten meat at any of them. Figured it was a safe guess."

Sara shrugged happily, flashing him another grin. "Sounds good. I'll meet you there, so I can come straight in to work, if that's okay with you."

"That's fine. I'll arrange reservations, and give you a call with the details."

* * *

Grissom glanced at the clock pointedly when Sara finally arrived in the break room in response to his page. They'd been waiting on her for nearly 40 minutes. While he debated chiding her for her delay, Nick let out a whistle.

"You're awfully dressed up tonight. No jeans or T-shirt. Did a hot date get interrupted?" he asked in mock-sympathy.

"Just a dinner date," she said, taking a seat at the break room table.

"What? I do, on rare occasions, have a social life," she said when the others turned towards her. She stared at Grissom pointedly when he gave her a disapproving look. "Is there something special about dinners around here that no one bothered to tell me about? You're acting like it's a lifetime commitment or something."

"Calm down, girl. Just teasin' ya."

"Sorry I'm late," she said calmly to Grissom. "I was on the other side of town. It is my night off. What's up?"

He stared at her for a moment, wondering whether he was meant to comment on her earlier statement. She hadn't called it dinner with a friend, but a date. What type of point was she trying to make? Was she trying to make a point? Giving her a last quizzical look, he turned to the others.

"Brass asked around the various nursing homes to see if anyone was missing any warfarin. No one was, but the good folks at West Brook decided to run a new inventory to double-check. They came up missing a 300-count bottle."

"Damn," Warrick swore softly. "That's enough for the killer to poison 20 people."

Grissom nodded. "They reviewed their surveillance tapes and found one of their maintenance staff taking the bottle. We have a warrant for his house. Vests and guns everybody. If he's our killer, assume he's dangerous."

"That's an understatement," Warrick muttered as they headed to the locker room, stealing a quizzical look at Sara. "You're dating Max?"

"We just had dinner," she sighed.

"Seems like a nice guy."

"He is," she said as she stashed her purse away.

"Then again, so did Hank," he pointed out.

"You're such a friend," she said sarcastically, grabbing her gear and heading out.

"She's dating that mathematician?" Nick asked in disbelief. "Sara and Gussy?"

"Got a hundred bucks says you won't call him that to his face," Warrick stated.

"Easiest hundred I've ever made."

* * *

"Look, Bobby, we know you stole the drugs. They have a video camera watching the drug lockup all the time. Why don't you tell us the rest?" Brass asked calmly, giving the young man across the table a friendly smile.

"I didn't do nothin'. I tole you I never opened the bottle. I threwed it away."

"You 'threwed it away' where?" Grissom asked impatiently.

"Over some fence."

"Okay, let's try this again. You see, right now, you're our favorite suspect in a serial murder case. Now, tell us the truth," Brass warned.

"I did. My granma takes that drug. She said it made the pain in her legs go away. Thought I could sell it on the street, but no one wanted it. So I threwed it away."

"It eased your grandmother's pain because it thinned her blood, preventing clots from forming. Warfarin isn't a narcotic," Grissom explained.

"See, listen to that dude. I didn't do nothin'. Let me go."

"Wrong, Mr. Jacobs. You see, we need to know where those drugs are. Because someone is using the same thing to murder people. How do I know you aren't the guy doing it?" Brass asked him pointedly, turning when the door opened.

"Hey," Sara said entering the interrogation room. "We found a bottle of warfarin in an abandoned lot down the block from his house. His prints are on the bottle. The safety seal was still intact. We opened it and counted the pills anyway. All 300 were in it."

"I tole you! Now, I'm leaving."

"No, you're not," Brass said with a smile. "Your former employers have filed theft charges against you. You're going to be our guest for a while. We might even 'threwed' away the key."

"Damn," Sara swore angrily as they headed back to the lab, causing Grissom to flinch.

"I'm … sorry … your dat … dinner was interrupted," he said shortly.

"I don't care about dinner. I thought we had the source of the drug. Dammit! Now what? None of the evidence is leading us to the killer."

Grissom let out a sigh as he picked up his pace to keep up with her as she stalked down the hallway, wondering if Catherine had been right in asking if upsetting Sara was a natural talent he possessed.

* * *

"Well hello, Catherine."

"Max. You clean up well," she said lightly, walking over the reception desk, nodding her approval at his tailored sports coat and slacks. "What brings you here?"

"I was having dinner with Sara when she got called into work. I thought she might want her leftovers for lunch. Or whatever you call a meal you eat in the middle of the night," he said, the handles of a carryout bag resting on his cast and a large cup of coffee in his hand.

"Come on. I think she's back from interrogation."

Leading him back to the break room, she saw Nick and Warrick talking at the end of the hallway, and started shaking her head when she recognized the teasing look on the taller CSI's face.

"Hey, Nick. Remember our bet?"

"About Gussy?" he smirked.

"That's him with Cath."

"Damn," Nick whispered when he turned to look down the hallway.

"I'll see you on pay day."

"Damn."

"Guys, is Sara around?" Cath asked, smiling at Nick's shocked expression.

"She's in the Layout Room with Griss," Warrick said.

"You can't take food into the labs. Why don't you wait in the break room, Max?"

"Of course."

Nick jogged over, nodding at Warrick to follow him. Turning to give his friend a grin, he walked into the break room and headed towards the mathematician.

"So, Max. I'm Nick Stokes. Nice to meet you," he said, shaking his hand and giving him a wide grin.

"Hello," he replied, eyeing the smaller man in amusement.

"You're from the South, too?"

"I'm from Virginia."

"Interesting. Gustav-Maximilian. Is that a family name?"

"Yes, I'm named after my grandfather," he said patiently

"Tell me, did anyone ever call you 'Gussy' growing up?"

"Never more than once," Brandenburg said, looking down on him in annoyance.

"Not surprised," Nick said, backing up and grabbing a cup of coffee, smiling as he passed Warrick.

* * *

Catherine entered the Layout Room, where Sara was explaining the latest set of mathematics to Grissom. While Sara worked at the overhead projector, he stole an occasional glance to smile impressively as she rolled through the equations. He'd save himself a lot of trouble if would tell Sara what he thought on occasion, she decided.

"Hey, Sara. You have a visitor," Catherine said, hoping the younger woman would come along quietly. She didn't want Grissom to find out from her that Sara was dating again.

"Who?" she asked in confusion.

"Your lunch delivery," Catherine said, subtlety nodding in the direction of the hallway.

"I didn't order any lunch."

Letting out a sigh, Catherine walked into the room with a forced smile. She noticed that Grissom was paying close attention to the exchange. Damn. Well, he was bound to find out sooner or later. It wasn't like the mathematician blended into a crowd.

"Max is here. He brought your leftovers from dinner. He's in the break room," she explained.

"Oh. Excuse me. I'll be right back," she said, smiling nervously at Grissom.

"You may as well take a lunch break now," he said, wondering why she seemed anxious.

"Okay. Uh, if you have any questions for Max…"

"No, I don't think so. You've got this covered."

"Right. We'll be in the break room," she said, getting up to leave quickly.

Catherine gave her a friendly smile as she passed, watching with amusement as Grissom followed Sara's progress out the room. He scowled deeply and cocked his head in confusion. She took a seat near him, glancing at the equations they had been examining. She cleared her throat softly when Grissom continued to stare out the door.

"I told you he was a leech. Why is he here in the middle of the night?" Grissom groused to the blonde.

"Gil, I think you should go meet Max," she said softly, wondering if she wanted to be in the building when those introductions were made. This had the potential to get messy.

"Why?"

"Don't you think you should meet the guy before you make judgments about him?" Catherine asked, raising an amused eyebrow when he looked away, clearly embarrassed. "Well, how about common courtesy then? He's doing us a favor helping on this case. It's not like we're paying him."

"We may as well be. You haven't seen the meals we're paying for," he said, giving her an irritated look when she snorted. He knew she thought he was being petty, but he'd interrupted their dinner by calling Sara in for a false lead. The least he could was give them a few minutes to chat.

Grissom watched as she left the room, his anger being replaced by confusion. He knew she was right. Brandenburg was doing the department a favor. His eyes glanced at the stacks of materials he had provided. This had taken hours to gather and summarize.

At the very least, he should meet the man out of courtesy, but he doubted his company would be welcomed. Grissom thought Sara was upset with him, but he wasn't sure. She maintained a professional attitude the whole time, but hadn't responded to the jokes he'd made trying to lighten the tension since his comments outside the interrogation room.

She used to joke with him all the time.

Letting out a long sigh, he rubbed his hand over his beard. What was Sara doing? He didn't believe she was seriously dating the older man. She'd have to be terribly lonely to even consider it. His hand paused as he thought about that. Just how lonely was she?

Giving his head a shake, he walked over to the photos on the walls. Sara wasn't so naïve that she wouldn't recognize what the mathematician was trying to do. Was she trying to give him a warning that he was running out of time? If so, he didn't appreciate the game.

Turning his attention back to the equations, he tried not to think about the fact that Sara wasn't one to play games, or what the implications of that meant.

* * *

Nick and Warrick finished their coffee and left the break room so Sara and Max could talk in private. Heading down the hallway, Warrick gave his friend a sharp look.

"You still owe me."

"I called him 'Gussy'. You owe me," Nick stated.

"No, you didn't. You asked if anyone ever called him that."

"And in the process, I called him 'Gussy'. You owe me."

"No way," Warrick said.

"Hold on. This could be fun," Nick said playfully, holding out an arm to stop his colleague. Pointing to the DNA Lab, he nodded in that direction as he started walking.

" … just don't see what Sara sees in him," the Texan said dramatically, shaking his head in disbelief, while Warrick rolled his eyes.

"In who?" the lab tech asked, looking up suddenly.

"Hey, Greg. It's nothing. Really. It's, well, Sara's new … boyfriend … is in the break room," he said sympathetically, carefully placing his emphasis, prompting the tech to excuse himself.

"That was cold, man," Warrick whispered as Greg exited the lab.

"Probably," Nick conceded. "Wanna go watch?"

"Oh, yeah," he said, as they quickly followed Greg down the hallway.

Their prey noticed the commotion behind him and turned to see what was going on as he entered the break room, stopping suddenly when he hit a wall.

"Easy there," it said in a friendly voice.

Turning forward, Greg found himself staring at a broad chest. He ran his eyes upward, tilting his head and stepping back to reach the face.

"Gah."

"Max, that's Greg Sanders. Our DNA tech," Sara said, shaking her head slowly.

"Hello, Greg," the mathematician said, grinning wildly when the lab tech watched nervously as his hand disappeared in Max's grip.

"Hi," he finally choked out.

Sara went to the door, shooting her colleagues a dangerous look, sending them chortling back down the hallway, exchanging a high-five. Just because one of them had a social life wasn't reason for them to torture poor Greg.

"What's the joke?" Grissom asked as he exited the Layout Room.

"Nothing," Warrick said quickly. "I've got to get to Trace."

"Nick?"

"Greg just met Max. The guy Sara's dating? You know Greg has a crush on Sara. I, uh, think he was surprised," he said slowly, wondering why Warrick was wincing painfully and shaking his head behind Grissom.

"Really?" Grissom said evenly. After giving Nick an odd look, he headed to the break room slowly, his curiosity piqued further when he saw a shell-shocked Greg walking down the hallway.

He heard their laughter as he rounded the corner, and found himself getting irritated that no one seemed to be working. Pursing his lips, he shook his head slightly. It was Sara's night off, after all. Since the raid had been a bust, there was no reason she had to stay. And he had told her to take a lunch break. He couldn't complain if she had a visitor, especially one who was helping the lab with an investigation.

Perhaps it was time to meet this mathematician.

_TBC_


	5. Ch 5

**Cardinality  
****Summary:** A serial killer is stalking the citizens of Las Vegas. Started out as a case file but the G/S aspect demanded equal representation. This is the edited version for this site. The original version can be found at my web site.  
**Rating:** R for subject matter  
**A/N**: No real spoilers. Many thanks to Burked for teaching me how to be a serial killer, among many other things.  
**Disclaimer**: Obviously, I don't own anything related to CSI. If I did, certain characters would be getting more screen time – together!

* * *

"_I cannot help it; in spite of myself, infinity torments me."_ – Alfred de Musset

**Chapter 5**

"You know, I've often been the center of attention, by sheer virtue of my size, but this," Max said, spreading his arms to indicate the lab, "has been unique."

Sara took her reheated meal from the microwave and sat across from him at the break room table. His smile seemed sincere, but she could tell he was curious about the reaction he was getting.

"You're younger than people expected," she started before giving him a grin. "And you're big in a different way."

"That first part made sense, but you lost me with the second part."

"When you were recommended to us, the dean's description implied you were … oversized. He didn't specify in what manner."

"Ah. That explains all the double takes directed at me," he said gently. "So why are you getting all the looks?"

"I, uh, don't have much of a social life," Sara admitted after slowly chewing her rice. "All your gifts, well, it raised a few eyebrows."

"And you never corrected them about my real age and stature," Max stated mirthfully.

"No. I was getting enough teasing as it was."

Sara didn't add she didn't want to see Grissom's reaction. Working under the presumption that Max was older and obese, he was already starting to act … well, like Grissom. Jealous wasn't the right word. To be jealous, he'd have to feel … something.

It made no sense. He didn't want to be involved, but he got upset whenever another man showed an interest. Grissom's reaction couldn't have been paternalistic – that idea was enough to be disturbing.

"Really?" Max said softly, causing her to look in quickly. His tone was friendly, but clearly indicated he wasn't buying her answer. "I must admit I'm surprised. You strike me as the type who would be used to being the object of … attention."

Sara sipped her coffee slowly, wondering how to respond. This was different. She wasn't used to being around a man who was perceptive, at least about her personal life. Hank had been nice, in his own two-timing, underhanded way, but he never thought to question any of her answers.

And Grissom was Grissom.

"None that ever went overboard on gifts," she said, raising an eyebrow when he shrugged.

"Well, I've always believed if you're going to do something, you should do it right," he said salaciously, causing her to blush. Chuckling, he took a sip of soda before giving her a friendly smile and changing the subject. "So, you told me how you got into forensics, but you never explained how you ended up leaving San Francisco to get to Vegas."

"I was invited," she said. "One of the CSIs here had been shot and later died. They needed someone to handle the investigation. I was a frie…, I had been a student of Grissom's. He asked me to handle it. When I was done, I was offered a job."

"No small feat. Asked to join the second-best lab in the country. Only the FBI is better," he said, enjoying her shocked look. "I looked it up after our first meeting. And I have friends at the FBI. They had some – shall we say, colorful – stories to tell about your boss."

"I can only imagine," she replied cautiously.

"Well, they did say he was very good at his job. And they spoke very highly of the work this lab does. You must have made quite an impression on your Dr. Grissom."

She was spared from having to respond by the appearance of Jacqui and Leah, both of whom stopped dead in their tracks when they entered the break room. Max rolled his eyes, before joining Sara in laughter.

* * *

Grissom walked down the hallway, for all purposes reading the paperwork on his clipboard. He'd stopped by his office to pick up the prop, along with his coffee mug. He didn't want Sara to think he was checking up on her.

Not that he was checking up on her. What Sara did in her private life wasn't any concern of his. He had no claim on her. He just wanted to meet the mathematician. It wasn't like Brandenburg was a competitor or anything. There was nothing to be concerned about.

Nothing at all.

As he approached the break room, he saw Jacqui and Leah exit, both with wide-eyed expressions. Sara's dating the older man really had caught everyone by surprise. He hoped she wouldn't be the brunt of too many jokes because of her folly.

Entering the room, he quickly scanned the vicinity. Sara was sitting with her back to him, and the mathematician sat across from her, his head resting on his arms on the table. From his vantage point, Grissom's view was blocked by Sara's back.

"Dr. Brandenburg? Gil Grissom. Thank you for your help," he called out as he headed for the coffee machine.

The mathematician watched as Sara swallowed her coffee nervously, turning to face her supervisor. Standing up slowly, he limped across the room, casting a curious look back to Sara, who'd yet to get up.

"Dr. Grissom," he said politely as he approached.

Grissom turned his head briefly, then set the coffee pot down sharply. Turning around he looked from Brandenburg to Sara and back again in confusion. This wasn't what he expected. The younger man was retired? He couldn't be much older than Sara or Nick. And he certainly wasn't out-of-shape.

Grissom stared at Sara intently. Her bawdy comments that first night in the break room came back to haunt him. They had an entirely different connotation now. What the hell was she up to? Was this some sort of payback for his assigning her to flirt? If she was trying to hurt him, she succeeded. This case was stressful enough. The mayor and sheriff were on him constantly, and they weren't making any headway.

Why was she doing this to him now?

"Something wrong, Dr. Grissom?" Brandenburg asked as he pointedly withdrew his hand, which the entomologist had neglected to notice.

"No," he answered shortly, casting a hurt look at Sara.

She started to make introductions, but realized the folly of that action right away. Returning Grissom's look, she wondered how to defuse the situation. She had been expecting her supervisor to be curt towards her; it was his standard operating procedure. But to be openly rude to a civilian who was volunteering to help them was too much, even for him.

Grissom noticed her harsh look, and her eyes darting to his hands. Looking down, he noticed the mathematician pulling his hand away.

"Oh, yes," he said, holding his hand out belatedly. "Sorry. Nice to meet you."

Quickly excusing himself, he stalked back to his office, his mind trying to re-evaluate all that had happened since he'd sent her to the mathematician.

Brandenburg turned to Sara after Grissom left, an eyebrow raised inquisitively. She gave him an embarrassed shrug before turning back to her lunch.

"Grissom isn't really known for his social skills," she offered.

"Is that a fact?" he asked, moving back around the table to his seat. He gave her a penetrating stare, then smiled slightly. "I think I'm going to get a complex if I keep showing up here."

Sara gave him a fleeting smile at his joke, before turning her attention back to her lunch. She shifted her vegetables around some, glad Max wasn't pursuing the topic. He had to have noticed the looks Grissom had given her.

"Am I competition?"

"What?" she sputtered, grabbing a napkin.

"That sounds something like a 'no'," he said, casting a look out the doorway. "Ex-lover?"

"No! Can we talk about something else?" she asked, feeling the blush creeping up her cheeks.

"Of course. You already said you don't have a boyfriend. Unrequited love?" he asked softly, causing her to snap her head up quickly. "You turned him down? No. He turned you down?" he asked incredulously.

"Max!" she exclaimed, turning to look nervously out the doorway.

"No one was around to overhear," he said in a low tone, leaning across the table. "I don't want to cause you any trouble. If our working together is going to complicate things for you, I can recommend another mathematician from the university to help you."

"That's not necessary," she said quickly.

"Are you sure? I can tell something's going on here. If you don't want to talk about it, that's fine. But I do think I should have some warning if there're going to be … complications."

"It's not you," Sara exhaled sharply. "Don't worry about it."

"If you say so," he said uncertainly.

"I do," she said, smiling broadly. His level of concern was touching. Despite his flirtatious nature, Max could be very attentive and kind. It had been too long since someone had treated her that well, and she was enjoying their growing friendship.

"I guess I should head home," Max said after she finished her lunch. "Give me a call when you get some free time. We can try dinner again."

"Sure," she said as she escorted him out of the building, smirking as various techs paused to look out of their labs as they passed.

"Sara, we're getting ready to have a meeting," Grissom said when she came back into the lab, still smiling. He watched as she went to grab her notes, uncertain exactly what was going on as he followed her into the Layout Room.

"I've checked with Jacqui," Grissom started. "None of the prints lifted were found at both scenes. The ones that did get a hit on AFIS had reason to be at the warehouse and had an alibi for the time of the killing."

"I've been to Trace. The fibers we found in the blood at the warehouse are sheep hair. It's consistent with the hair we found at the first scene. The fibers Cath lifted from the security guard are common heavyweight cotton. It's used by several manufacturers of uniforms and work clothes. Lots of drivers coming into the warehouse would be wearing that type of material," Warrick said.

"I traced down all the sheep hair brushes sold recently. All accounted for. QD says the writing is the same as the first scene. The warfarin used in both victims is the same strength, probably from the same batch," Catherine said. "Brass is still trying to find the source."

"We scoured the guard's place. Nothing in the kitchen has been laced with warfarin," Nick said. "I even went back and checked water samples from both of their apartments. Nada. Checked the dumpster; none of the food in it was poisoned. The shoe print we lifted from the crates belongs to a size 9 ½ Wolverine work boot. We've gone through about half of the employees, and we have two guys so far that wear that type and size."

"According to the victim's girlfriend, he liked to eat out a lot, but he wasn't picky. He'd grab a bite anywhere. I checked his credit card records and receipts. In the time frame he was poisoned, he had the oil in his car changed, picked up his dry cleaning and rented videos," Sara explained. "There are over 300 restaurants, bars, convenience stores and fast-food joints along the route between those places. Brass is sending uniforms to interview them all."

"Did we ever hear anything from Rambar?" Grissom asked.

"He couldn't tell us much from the writing since it was print. Male. Trouble controlling his anger," Sara replied with a shrug.

"I could have told you that," Catherine muttered.

"What do we know about the signature?" Nick asked.

"The only connection we've been able to establish between the victims is they are both male. We know the killer is poisoning them in advance. That indicates he has a good idea where the victims will be 30 hours after they ingest the warfarin."

"He knows the victims somehow?" Sara asked warily, continuing after Grissom gave her a brief nod. "The killer's getting them to ingest a deadly amount of a blood thinner. Probably laced some food or a drink with it. The victims would have to feel comfortable ingesting the poisoned item."

"If it's in the food," Nick interjected. "We tested everything in both victim's apartments and dumpsters. Nothing had been tampered with."

"If the victims' food isn't poisoned, how else could the killer get it in the victims?" Grissom asked him.

"You said it's absorbed quickly. Could they be coming into physical contact with it?" the Texan ventured.

"Not likely," Catherine replied. "Skin exposure is the most common form of accidental poisoning, according to Doc. Usually people who work with rat poison a lot, but don't follow the directions, don't wash up afterwards, but it takes a long time to get enough exposure to be harmful. To get this much warfarin in their systems, they'd have to have been swimming in the stuff."

"What about the writing?" Warrick asked.

"Blood is very symbolic. Killers use it when they want to leave an impression. Why math? I don't know," Grissom admitted.

"And why is he using another victim's blood at the scene?" Sara asked.

"Another question I don't have the answer to yet," he said softly. "Anyone have anything else? Okay, let's get back to work."

* * *

Grissom looked up from his desk when he heard the laughter. Sara, with Bobby and Archie in tow, was making exaggerated hand motions, prompting another outburst from her audience. He tracked the procession as it passed by his door towards the break room, the tip of his pen tapping a staccato pattern on his crossword puzzle.

He frowned, wondering what had put her in such a good mood. It turned to a scowl as his mind insisted on providing detailed visuals of possible explanations. Unfortunately, they all involved a very tall, very strong, younger man.

Turning back to his puzzle, he gripped his pen painfully. What did he care? It wasn't his concern. He'd already decided he and Sara were better off apart. If she wanted to waste her time with another Hank, let her. You'd have thought she would have learned a lesson from her last dalliance.

The paramedic incident had been enough to anger him. What did he have to offer Sara? Hank had the intelligence of an overcooked turnip, at that was probably insulting the entire brassicaceous family. The only possible attraction had to be physical, and Grissom was angry that she had lowered herself to that level.

When Grissom finally heard of their breakup, he hadn't been surprised. The man seriously had nothing to offer Sara. Part of him was … happy … it ended. What had she expected she'd find with the fool? But when he learned the truth behind it, he'd been furious. She deserved better than that. It only reinforced his convictions the paramedic was a fool.

But Brandenburg wasn't a Hank.

The man, despite his many flaws, had a post-graduate degree. Assuming he didn't get it from a degree mill or Fuzzybottom State College, he had to have some functioning brain cells. And he was already retired; or he was covering up the fact he couldn't hold a job. Grissom grunted silently; the money he freely spent on Sara cast doubts on that fantasy.

No, he wasn't a Hank. The paramedic had been a … diversion.

Brandenburg was dangerous.

Dropping his pen abruptly, Grissom ran his hands through his hair. What the hell was going on? Sara had let the entire team operate under the assumption the mathematician was an old, out-of-shape bum. Did she enjoy pulling that joke on them?

He let out a sigh as he admitted to himself that Sara didn't play those types of games. There had to be another reason why she kept this a secret. None of the multitude of reasons why she would do so made him feel any better.

Looking at the clock, Grissom grabbed the assignments for the night. He was reading too much into this. Sara wouldn't fall for someone so shallow. The mathematician couldn't be her type. She was keeping it entirely professional.

Hopefully.

Walking into the break room, he cleared his throat to get everyone's attention. Grissom gave Sara a disapproving look as she chuckled at the joke Warrick finished.

"Cath, there's a suicide at the Tangiers. Get that, and then get to work with Archie. He's pulled together all the old messages off the victims' answering machines. See if there's anything useful. Nick, Warrick, I want you to go through their apartments again. Check for anything that could link the two together. Same church, clubs, sports. Anything. Sara, trick roll at the Monaco," he said, not bothering to look at her as he handed out the assignments.

"Ouch," Nick said softly after their supervisor left the break room. "Someone's on the boss's shit list."

She shrugged as they walked out of the room. All things considered, his reaction hadn't been that bad. It was only a matter of time before he started his snarky routine. He did have a reputation to maintain, after all.

"Hey, Grissom's actually talking to me, acknowledging my existence. That's better treatment than I expected. Let's see how long it takes him to get me transferred to days," Sara said as she rounded the corner and nearly collided with Grissom, who had been talking to Greg. "Excuse me."

Grissom turned to watch them as they walked away, Nick casting furtive glances back between them. What? Did she really think he'd want to get rid of her? She had to be joking – even if she had sounded completely resigned to that fate.

He'd never do anything that petty. Someone had to take the trick roll. There wasn't any significance to him giving her a minor case when she had been originally assigned to this serial murder.

None at all.

Once she was out of sight, he returned his attention back on the lab tech, who had been watching Sara leave as well. Noticing Greg's rueful expression, Grissom raised an eyebrow in empathy. He understood how the lab tech felt.

* * *

"Hey, Gil. Archie and I went over the messages."

"Find anything the two victims had in common?" Grissom asked as he looked up from the microscope.

"Does the fact that they probably had the most boring lives in Vegas count?" Catherine asked as she leaned against the lab table. "No threats, no arguments, nothing scandalous. I've got their phone records going back for the past six months. Maybe they had a common enemy who happens to be patient."

Grissom nodded his approval as he went back to his microscope.

"It'd go faster with some help. Our insurance salesman made hundreds of calls a month," she said, moving around to stand next to him. Again, he nodded, pausing a moment to jot down notes in a lab journal.

A voice clearing caused both of them to look to the doorway, where Sara stood, arms crossed.

"I've finished with the trick roll. Swabs have been sent to DNA, fibers are with Trace, Jacqui has the prints. What would you like me to do now?" she asked formally.

"What's the status of your stolen cat case?" Grissom asked as he returned to his microscope.

"The ex-husband admitted to destroying it. Last week. My report is sitting on your desk," she said, maintaining a professional tone.

"Hodges is backed up. Go help him."

"Sure," she said evenly, nodding to Catherine who felt her temper rising as she watched the exchange.

"You are something else," she muttered softly, pushing off the bench and heading towards the door.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing," she called out over her shoulder.

"Catherine," Grissom said shortly, causing her to pause.

"I don't have anything to say to you," she said firmly, waving her hands for emphasis.

"Yet you seem to keep talking."

"I … you … God, never mind," she said, resuming her path towards the door.

"If you have something to say to me, tell me. Otherwise stop making a scene."

"Making a scene!" Catherine exclaimed, turning around to stare at him crossly.

"Well?" Grissom asked, a touch of hesitation in his voice. His friend's anger was becoming obvious.

"No way. I'm not getting involved."

"Involved in what?"

"No way!" she repeated. "You don't want to hear what I have to say."

"Catherine," he sighed, turning around on his stool. "Just tell me what's bothering you."

"You."

"What?" Grissom asked in total surprise.

"You heard me," she said shortly, crossing her arms defiantly.

He cocked his head in confusion, waiting for her to continue. Instead, she returned his look with a glare. "Could you be a little more specific?" he finally prompted.

"Not if I want this serial killer to get caught."

"Catherine, I have no idea what you are talking about," Grissom said, taking off his glasses and staring at her intently. "Tell me."

"No way! The three of us are supposed to be working this case together, but in order to do that, you have to be talking to at least one of us. You're already blowing Sara off," she said, walking over to stand directly in front of him.

"I believe you heard us talking a moment ago," he pointed out.

"And you're sending her to do busy work while this case is still active. I told you I could use help with the phone records."

"Oh, well, if that's what's bothering you, tell Sara to give you a hand. Hodges can handle his own mess," he said, spinning around on the stool to look back into the microscope, wondering why the blonde had gotten so upset over a minor thing.

"Right. Sure. That fixes everything."

"Catherine," he sighed impatiently. "Would you stop speaking in riddles?"

"Like I said, you don't want to hear what I have to say. You'll end up treating both of us like dirt," she stated emphatically.

Setting down his pen, he turned from the microscope to see her eyeing him distastefully. This was more complicated than his not assigning Sara to help her go through the phone records. Getting off the stool, he grabbed her by the elbow and walked her towards his office. Once inside, Grissom closed the door and crossed over to sit behind his desk.

"We have a case that needs to be solved. You're implying I'm letting my emotions get in the way of that. If you need to tell me something, then just come out and say it."

"Gil, I'm not implying anything. I'm stating a fact," she said.

"And that fact is what exactly?" he asked impatiently.

"You can't stand the fact that your toy is being played with by someone else. And that she is enjoying it," Catherine sighed after a moment's hesitation.

"I do not treat anyone on my staff as a toy," he said, the warning clear in his voice.

"Right. And the sky is green in your own private world," Catherine snorted. "What do you call your little routines? Don't you think everyone notices when you pull these stunts? You're damned lucky she's never called you on it."

"I don't treat her like a toy," he repeated, looking down at the papers on his desk. Had his displeasure really been that obvious?

"How do you think it seems from her end? You get bent all out of shape anytime some guy pays her attention, but you ignore her."

Grissom looked up to look at his friend sadly. She was oversimplifying the situation; he wasn't that petty. The prospect of a relationship with her had been complicated enough without his hearing issues. It wasn't like he tried to hurt her on purpose.

Not that it hurt Sara any the less because it hadn't been intentional.

"You know it's not that simple. I'm her supervisor," he sighed eventually.

"You know it's not that complicated. You could have worked around that."

"Could have?" he asked, wondering if her use of the past tense was deliberate. Her dismissive shrug didn't give him any reassurance.

"Gil, sweetie, let's be honest, okay? In a lot of ways, you're really not that great of a catch," she said, giving him a sympathetic look as he stared at her with his mouth open. "You really aren't. How long did you think Sara was going to put up with you?"

Grissom continued to stare at her, his occasional eye blink the only motion he made. He knew Catherine was his closest friend on the team, and thought more of him than anyone else. And apparently she didn't think that much of him. What did Sara think of him? He wasn't sure he really wanted to know the answer to that.

"Look, you aren't the most socially graceful person in the world. You can be rude, even if it's not intentional. You're inconsistent. God only knows what days you're going to talk to her or ignore her. You don't let people know what you think, let alone what you are feeling. That doesn't exactly make you prime romantic material. Sara's not exactly Miss Congeniality herself, but she could do a lot better for herself."

"Like Gustav-Maximilian?" he asked bitterly.

"Yes, Gilbert. In a lot of ways he is a better catch. He's a flirt, but he treats her well. Max doesn't hesitate to tell her how he feels. She doesn't have to guess what on his mind. She doesn't have to worry if he's going to suddenly stop talking to her."

"So why are you telling me this? It sounds like she's better off with him," he said, an element of defeat clear in his tone.

"Yeah, but it doesn't mean she's happier with him," she said, shaking her head in disbelief at the fact. Getting up, she walked around his desk. Sitting on the corner of it, Catherine reached over to give his hand a gentle squeeze. "Gil, in a lot of ways, you are a good catch – when you let yourself. You can be helpful and supportive. God knows you've pulled my ass out of the fire enough times."

"A few," he admitted, twitching his lips slightly.

"Don't push it," she said in mock-warning. "Look, what do you want? If you aren't going to be involved with her, then get over it. You can't keep her locked away until you get in a mood to be nice to her."

Grissom looked up impatiently at her, but kept silent. He didn't like her implications, but doubted now was the time to debate with her.

Catherine smiled at his look. He might want to deny it, but he knew the truth.

"Sara won't stand for that type of behavior forever, and you'll end up driving her away. You know as well as I do what having the Las Vegas Crime Lab listed on your resume does in our field. She'd get snapped up by any other lab in the country."

"I know. I don't want that," he admitted petulantly.

"Then you better find a way to work through this," she said, getting up from the desk. "Gil, they're friends. It's not like they're picking out baby names."

Grissom looked up to give her a sharp look, but she ignored him. "Yet. Stop wasting time. I bet you haven't done anything since you sent her that plant," Catherine said, not waiting for confirmation. "Look, do something. Either move forward or fade away."

"Thank you, Catherine," he said pointedly, as he walked with her out the off the office. Giving her a nod, Grissom walked towards Trace, where he could hear Hodges arguing with Sara.

"It's not like I asked for this assignment. I was told to help you," she sighed impatiently.

"Oh, hi, boss," Hodges said when Grissom walked into the office.

"Sara, Catherine could use your help. She's going over the phone records from the victims."

"Fine," she said. "Can I finish this sample first? It's nearly done."

"I can do that, boss. I told her I'd do it next, right after I finished with these fragments…"

"Whichever you prefer, Sara," Grissom said softly, ignoring the lab tech's hurt expression as he headed back to reviewing his own evidence.

* * *

Sara pulled into the driveway of the Tudor home, feeling more relaxed after a hot breakfast, a shower and four hours sleep. Even knowing how Grissom was going to treat her, it still hurt. He didn't want to have dinner with her, but she wasn't allowed to have any other friends?

That's all Max was. He was a tease, but there was nothing going on between them. Not that Grissom would believe her. He hadn't believed her about Hank. Until that point, he'd only been a friend. It wasn't until Grissom shut her out that she pursued the relationship farther.

She shook her head at the irony. On a moment's notice, she'd been on a plane to Vegas when Grissom called her for help. He said it was because he trusted her to work the Holly Gribb's case, but he thought the worst of her in any personal situation.

Professionally, at least, she fared well. A stint at the best lab in the country – and being handpicked to join the team – would look good on her resume. If she ever decided to leave. She didn't want to, but Sara wasn't about to sacrifice her career to Grissom's moods. If he ever started to actively interfere with her job, then she would leave.

Walking over to the doorway off of the kitchen, she knocked lightly, smiling when Max quickly let her in. He'd called in the morning, inviting her over to watch a movie.

"Well, hello," he said with a smile.

"Hey."

"What type of popcorn do you prefer? I have regular, cheddar or toffee."

"Any of them. You pick."

"All of the above," he said, pointing out three bowls already popped. "Beer?"

"Great," she said, going over to grab two bowls, while he grabbed a six-pack and the other bowl.

Walking through the house, Sara was surprised by the number of empty rooms they passed on the way to the back of the building. Brandenburg noticed the inspection and gave her a teasing smile.

"Safety."

"What?"

"I wanted a house with the doorways tall enough that I wouldn't give myself a concussion. I'm a klutz," he explained. "I also wanted something with a separate office. This is what was on the market. I don't need all the room, but it seemed more practical than building a new home."

"You're a klutz?" Sara said, eyeing his form.

Brandenburg nodded towards the cast on his left hand. "You'd think I'd learned by now. Never was much of an athlete. This," he held his arms out, "is the result of genetics and work. My father was a fisherman, my grandparents were farmers. I was working ever since I was little."

He pointed towards a door with the six-pack, politely escorting her into a large room. Shelves held a vast collection of videotapes and DVDs. On the far wall, the largest plasma screen TV Sara had ever seen was mounted to the wall. In front of it sat a large leather sofa and a coffee table.

"I can grab a blanket if the leather bothers you," he offered.

"That's okay. I don't eat meat because of work. Grissom and I stayed up all night with a bug-infested pig," Sara explained when he gave her a puzzled look. "It's weird."

"Not really. I remember the first dead body I saw. It was a kid who had fallen out of a boat and drowned. We pulled up the body a few days later on one of our lines. I couldn't eat crabs for a long time after that. They're the vultures of the sea; carrion eaters," he explained. "Not a pretty site. Why don't you pick out a movie?"

"This is some setup you have here."

"I love movies, but I hate theaters. Seats are too small and too cramped," he said as he started the DVD player. Walking over to the couch, Brandenburg took a seat a respectable distance from Sara and handed her a bottle of beer.

Smiling, she leaned into the soft leather, giving him an appraising look. In the last few minutes, in a casual conversation, she'd learned more about Max – his background, his family, his likes – than she had learned about Grissom after years of knowing him.

Max was a nice guy. He was intelligent, friendly, didn't mind being seen with her in public. While he flirted openly with her, Max had never put any pressure on her.

Grissom had said no. Bluntly.

Was there really any reason to hold out hope any longer?

Taking a deep sip of her beer, Sara slid over, settling comfortably against Max's side, smiling when he gently draped an arm over her shoulders.

_TBC_


	6. Ch 6

**Cardinality  
****Summary:** A serial killer is stalking the citizens of Las Vegas. Started out as a case file but the G/S aspect demanded equal representation. This is the edited version for this site. The original version can be found at my web site.  
**Rating:** R for subject matter  
**A/N**: No real spoilers. Many thanks to Burked for teaching me how to be a serial killer, among many other things.  
**Disclaimer**: Obviously, I don't own anything related to CSI. If I did, certain characters would be getting more screen time – together!

* * *

"_I cannot help it; in spite of myself, infinity torments me."_ – Alfred de Musset

**Chapter 6**

"Sara."

Hearing her name called, the CSI altered her course and headed towards the receptionist's desk. There, Judy gave her a befuddled look before pointing to a box sitting on the corner. Giving her head a shake, Sara walked over and pulled the card off the box. Not surprisingly, it was from her oversized admirer.

"This will have to do until I can convince you to stay for the real treat, Max."

Grinning widely, she tucked the card into the pocket of her jeans. She was bound to get enough teasing without the others seeing that innuendo. Sara opened the box to reveal a cake elaborately decorated with edible flowers.

"That's so sweet," Judy sighed, prompting the brunette to look up and flash her a grin.

"Swing by the break room later and help yourself," she called out as she gathered up her latest present and headed down the hallway happily.

A broad smile formed as she walked towards the break room. He really was a flirt. She thought about telling Max that he didn't need to send her presents, but Sara had to admit she was enjoying the experience. Not only was it nice to have a man clearly and openly state his interest, but the joy in shocking her co-workers couldn't be overlooked. She'd be the first to admit she wasn't exactly a social butterfly, but it wasn't outside the realm of probability that a man would be interested in her.

Sara's joyful mood dissipated when she entered the break room. Grissom was there with his back towards the door as he poured a cup of coffee. Letting out a silent sigh, she briefly considered leaving until he went back to his office, but quickly dismissed the idea. He'd find out soon enough. Might as well get this explosion over with quickly.

"Hey," she called out politely, setting the box on the table.

"Hey," he replied softly, glad that she didn't sound upset. After his curt behavior yesterday, he was expecting her to be angry. Turning around, his smile became forced when he saw the cake. He darted his eyes from it to look at her expectantly.

"A gift," she said, walking over to the counters, looking for a knife. Finding one, she grabbed it and some napkins before turning around to find Grissom still watching her carefully.

"It's not your birthday, is it?" he asked uncertainly, not bothering to ask for confirmation on who had sent the present. That clearly wasn't a cake from the baked goods section of a supermarket.

"No." Sara shrugged, passing Grissom to pour herself to a cup of coffee.

"Oh."

She paused briefly when she walked back to the table. For a moment, his expression had seemed almost pained. What reason did he have to be hurt? It had been his choice to not pursue a relationship. Going over to the cake, she began slicing it, looking up to see Grissom's intense stare. The depth of emotion in his eyes was startling, if short-lived. Despite all that happened, she didn't want to be a source of pain for him. If he didn't want to be intimate, maybe they could at least be friends again.

"Help yourself to a piece," she said kindly, taking a sliver for herself.

"Maybe later," Grissom replied, cocking his head in puzzlement as she closed her eyes and smiled after taking a bite.

"Sorry," she said, her expression belying any traces of regret. Max remembered – it had only been a casual remark, but he had remembered. One morning while having coffee at the diner, she'd passed on a slice of cake, saying she disliked their frosting. She mentioned to Max she preferred buttercream – rich and smooth, without being too sweet.

The difference was remarkable. After years of knowing each other, Grissom still didn't know when her birthday was. Each year, the others would treat her to breakfast after shift. It was a tradition they celebrated with and for each other. Sometimes Grissom even joined in.

Of course, she doubted he'd recall Nick or Greg's birth dates either. For a man with a remarkable memory and a keen sense of observation, he showed remarkably little interest in the people surrounding him.

Grissom was an enigma; too bad he'd never let her get to know him better. It would have been an interesting adventure.

The subject of her observation sipped his coffee in a state of bewilderment. It wasn't her birthday; he'd been certain of that before he'd asked the question, but that guy had sent her a cake. Why? Did they have something to celebrate?

Deciding he really didn't want to know the answer to that question, he took a seat at the table, making the motions of going through the night's assignments. When the others entered, he tried to ignore the teasing and the near-orgasmic sounds as they sampled the dessert.

After a few moments, he cleared his throat and waited until he had everyone's attention, despite the fact it highlighted that he was the only one not joining in the impromptu party.

"Catherine, did you find anything in the phone records?"

"Well, yeah, actually, we did," she said in a syrupy tone, causing Sara to hide her grin behind her coffee cup. "We know the first victim ordered carryout from the same restaurant every Saturday."

"Up until the night he was killed," Grissom added.

"Yeah. The second victim ordered from the same restaurant twice in the past six months. The most recent was seven weeks ago."

"But neither victim placed an order on the day they were poisoned," Grissom said, looking over his glasses at Warrick for confirmation.

"Right," he said. "We talked to the owner, the wait staff. Neither victim had been in there on the day they were poisoned."

"Could just be a coincidence," Nick pointed out. "The second victim's girlfriend said he'd grab a bite to eat at whatever happened to be convenient. That restaurant is on the route between his dry cleaner and his apartment."

"True," Grissom said, rubbing a hand over his beard. "But right now it's the only link between the victims that we have."

"Have you checked with the F.B.I.?" Sara asked calmly.

The others turned to face him expectantly. They all knew his aversion to working with the federal government on cases.

"Our new sheriff would prefer to keep this in house for now. We've been in contact with the feds, and they've checked their databases. No similar crimes have been reported."

Pausing to take a sip of his coffee, he noted the dejected looks on their faces. He understood their frustrations, but all they could do now was wait.

"We've done all we can do with the evidence we have. Until we locate the original victim, the source of the warfarin, or we get another victim, there's nothing more we can do," Grissom told them softly.

Handing out the night's assignments, he surprised everyone – including himself – by pairing up with Sara on a hit-and-run in the desert outside of Boulder City. She'd given him a brief, confused look before gathering her kit and meeting him in the parking lot.

Pulling into traffic, Grissom took a moment to glance at Sara, who sat staring out the side window. He had no idea why he'd done this. It had been a spur of the moment thing. He needed to talk to her, but he had no idea what needed to be said.

Turning his attention back to the road, Grissom recalled their first meeting and his joy at having such an enthusiastic student. It seemed like a lifetime ago. In a way, it was, he realized. So much had changed in his life since he'd invited her to take a position here. In the process, they'd grown apart, despite being closer geographically.

When he'd offered Sara the job, he hadn't considered the consequences. He never thought for a moment that she'd grow to be interested in him. She was so much younger. He certainly hadn't realized how he'd fall for her, or how he'd damage their friendship by trying to avoid an unprofessional relationship.

She was a favorite student, someone in whom he could feel pride as he watched her progress through the ranks. Sara had been so eager to learn, hanging on to everything he'd said. It had been too long since he'd appreciated her attention. Too long since he had appreciated her.

He was losing Sara.

"Cases involving signature killers are always difficult, both personally and professionally," he began once the silence became too uncomfortable.

.Sara twisted around in her seat to face him, a curious expression barely visible in the reflected lights from the street.

"They are typically of above-average intelligence. They take their time to pick out their victims, to stage their scenes. It means they plan out their killings in detail in advance. They are less likely to make a careless mistake, making them harder to catch. And they won't stop until they are caught," he continued softly.

Sara regarded him calmly, her head tilted slightly as she tried to process his behavior. This was different. Normally his mood swings took days, if not weeks, to manifest. He'd gone from his curt behavior last shift to being more than civil in only one night. When had Grissom switched to being a rapid-cycling jackass?

Interestingly, she found herself more curious than angry by his abrupt change in behavior. In a perverse sort of way, she was learning something new about him. Sara wondered if this was a variation of his typical pattern, of if she was experiencing an all-new game of his.

Cocking her head to a different angle, as if a new perspective would reveal something else about him, Sara watched him carefully. Grissom was a mystery on so many levels. She doubted if a lifetime together would be enough time to understand him completely.

That actually made him more appealing.

At times.

Other times, like now, it made him frustrating to deal with. What was going on? She had given him the option of being involved, but he had turned her down. Did he honestly expect she wouldn't eventually move on? As much as she cared for him, Sara had no intentions of spending the rest of her life pining away for him.

Turning her attention back to the highway, she couldn't help but wonder what a psychologist would make of him. He certainly wasn't your typical male. No, Grissom was … unique. The poor doctor would probably retire his couch after trying in vain to get him to talk in anything other than riddles.

When she didn't respond, Grissom stole another brief glance, and then licked his lips nervously.

"Probably the hardest thing is to figure out what's the significance of signature. Each is unique to that killer. Sometimes it's fairly obvious. There will be a blatant sexual element, for example. Then, every so often, you come across a case like ours where the signature is more subtle."

She remained silent, but turned back around to face him. He darted his eyes quickly, trying to gauge her mood. Her lack of communication was beginning to get eerie. "What do you think is different in this case, Sara?"

"The victims really aren't important to the killer," she said after a moment's consideration. "It's the blood."

"Go on," he said encouragingly.

"He poisons the victims, but then he kills them in a relatively quick and painless method. There's no sexual assault, no torture. He doesn't prolong the suffering. The killer waits until they are dead before he begins draining their blood. Even then, he only mutilates the bodies in order to get access to the blood. For some reason, he keeps it from one victim to use at the next murder scene."

"Very interesting. Have you been thinking about this?" Grissom asked, turning briefly to smile at her as they waited at a traffic light.

"Aberrant psychology in general," she said, turning to fix him with a pointed look.

"Oh," he said in confusion, looking back at the light. She wasn't trying to imply something, was she? Swinging his head around, he saw Sara raise an eyebrow knowingly, causing him to blink in surprise. "Oh."

"Light's changed," she said, a hint of smile forming. "So what's up with the blood?"

"That's the question, isn't it? There's the psychological aspect of it. Blood is very symbolic. It could be hematodipsia – the derivation of sexual pleasure from blood," he said.

"I wouldn't be the woman to ask about sexual deviance," she said sarcastically.

Grissom turned his head abruptly, staring at her in shock. Sara tilted her head to give him another piercing look.

"Traffic," she said softly, her lips twitching as she turned her head forward again.

"Right," he said, shaking his head slightly as he tried to regain his composure. "Anyway, the use of blood could have religious undertones. Or it could have some significance to the killer; something from his past. At this point, we can't make that determination."

Sara nodded slowly, facing him. They didn't have enough evidence to work with at this time. "You don't think the restaurant is the link, do you?"

"I don't know. It's tempting to want it to be, and that can be dangerous. The restaurant could be the source of the poisoned food, but we don't know for a fact that it was delivered that way. The second victim hadn't been there in almost two months. For stalking a potential victim, that's a long time."

"So, it could be a coincidence?"

"It could be. With just two victims, it's hard to determine what elements belong in the signature and what are random occurrences."

Turning back to the road, Sara tried to figure out why he was being so communicative. He certainly was full of surprises tonight.

"You're a good CSI."

Snapping her head around, Sara caught him rubbing his hand through his hair before grabbing the steering wheel harder. Definitely full of surprises.

"One of the best I've ever worked with."

"Thank you," she said. Despite the softness of her voice, a hint of disbelief crept into her tone, causing him to give her a sad look. "I've had good teachers," she added softly, looking out the window again.

"There's not much left I can teach you, besides bugs," he said, the regret clear in his voice. It had hurt that she didn't believe his honest compliment, but Grissom admitted to himself that he'd probably given reasons to feel that way. "With a bit more experience, you'll be better at this than I am."

"I doubt that," she said, turning to look at him in surprise.

"I don't," he said, noticing the flashing lights of the police cruiser in the distance. Soon, they wouldn't be able to talk in private. He was running out of time. In more ways than one.

"Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow before shift?"

"I'm sorry. What did you say?" she asked after a moment. His statement had been said so quickly, it had come out sounding like one, long word. It certainly couldn't have been what she thought he had said. No, she had to have misheard him.

"I asked if you would like to grab something to eat tomorrow before work," he repeated, forcing himself to pause at the end of each word. When she didn't respond, he stole a quick glance as he turned onto the shoulder. Her open-mouthed stare didn't do much to inspire confidence.

"I'm sorry. I already have dinner plans for tomorrow," she said, shaking her head in wonderment. He actually had asked her on a date. When was the last time she had two date offers for the same night? Had she ever had two offers for the same night before?

"How about some other night?" he asked, trying to keep his voice level. Grissom didn't ask who she'd be with tomorrow. He had a pretty good idea already, and for once, he wasn't that interested in verifying a theory. It had been hard enough asking her in the first place. Didn't she understand that? Being turned down was bad enough, but the fact she was going to be with Brandenburg again only added to his pain.

"They're waiting for us," she said, hopping out of the Tahoe and grabbing her kit.

"Sara?" he whispered as he caught up to her, ignoring the looks from O'Riley.

"Let's talk later," she said, ducking under the police tape and heading towards David. They quickly processed the scene. Grissom discreetly watched her as they worked, wondering if he had waited too long to make a move. She hadn't sounded too interested.

After they gathered up their evidence and packed it away, Grissom drove them slowly back to the lab. Once they got there, he'd lose any chance for a private conversation. "Want to get some lunch on the way back?"

Letting out a sigh, Sara gave a half-hearted shrug. "Sure."

"It's not required," he said, more harshly than he intended.

"In that case, could you drop me off at the lab?" she asked softly.

"Sara … I … I don't know what to do here. I'm trying to ask you out."

"I know," she said with a slight nod of her head. "I don't think it's a good idea."

"Why not? It wasn't that long ago you were asking me out."

"More than a month, Grissom. And in all that time, you barely spoke to me. Now, I'm dating someone else, and you suddenly have an interest. Tell me, honestly, if Max wasn't around, would you be asking me out?"

"That's a hypothetical question, Sara. I don't know what I'd be doing if he wasn't around," he said. So, she was actually dating him. Damn. He should have done this earlier.

"That's a good enough answer," she said quietly, staring out the side window so she didn't have to face him.

"What do you mean?" Grissom asked in confusion. When she didn't answer immediately, he called her name softly.

"It's a matter of want. You don't really want to be with me, you just don't want anyone else to date me," Sara sighed. She didn't add her doubts about whether Grissom would remain interested if Max were out of the picture.

"That's not true," he said. "I do want you. To be with you."

"I wish I could believe you," she said, the pain evident to both of them.

"Give me a chance," he said intently.

"I did," she laughed humorlessly. "You didn't want it then. Remember?"

"Give me another chance. Just one more," he insisted.

"Can I think about it Grissom?" Sara asked after some hesitation.

"What's to think about?" he asked, turning his head briefly to watch her carefully.

"A lot," she said, nodding her head in earnest.

"Could you be a bit more specific?" he asked with an honest curiosity.

"We played this game for over three years, Grissom. It never moved anywhere. I'm not sure I want to keep playing," Sara admitted eventually.

"I think the rules are about to change," he said, darting his eyes between her and the road.

"That's not necessarily a good thing."

"Doesn't mean it's a bad thing, either."

Sara shook her head, a sad smile forming. "In all the years I've known you, I couldn't learn the first set of rules. I don't think I want to try another set. The penalties are a bitch."

"I never meant to hurt you," Grissom said contritely.

"Imagine what you could do if you set your mind to it," Sara said before she could stop herself. Whether he deserved the rebuke or not, she didn't want to be that petty. Inflicting pain brought her no pleasure. "Sorry."

"It's okay," he said eventually. The implications of her statement jarred him. Had he been blind to her pain, or didn't he care? "What if you make the rules this time?"

"Grissom … this … shouldn't be a game. It isn't about rules. There's no domination in a real relationship," she stated, looking over to see him drumming his fingers nervously on the steering wheel. "It's about trust and being honest. You really don't get that, do you?"

"Apparently not. You're barely talking to me," Grissom said, letting out a disgusted breath when his cell phone started ringing.

"Probably the pot calling to let you know you're black, Dr. Kettle, " Sara muttered softly, turning to watch the desert sky. She'd thought he'd confused her in the past, but this took the cake. No doubt Max had prompted his behavior, but Grissom had sounded sincere. Was it worth taking a chance on? Or would he lose interest as quickly as it had sprung up?

"That was Jim. Shoe prints from the warehouse haven't turned up much. Five employees wore that make and size. Three were at a bachelor party the night of the first killing. The fourth was pulled over for speeding near Laughlin at the time of the second. The fifth guy claims he was gambling both nights. They're waiting on the video tape from the casino, but Jim thinks he's telling the truth."

"Damn."

Grissom glanced over at her sadly. Her frustration had come through clearly. He wondered how much of it he was directed at him. Obviously, he'd hurt her more than he had realized.

It seemed he had waited until it was too late. Logically, it would be best to just drop this whole line of conversation. He was only going to embarrass himself and irritate Sara. She wasn't interested anymore, especially now that Brandenburg was in the picture.

All of this had been a bad idea. There were too many potential pitfalls, without adding in all the professional conflicts of dating one of his subordinates. It was easier and safer to move on. Backing off was the logical thing to do at this point.

Darting his eyes to Sara again, he was jarred by her sad expression.

Screw logic.

"Look, there's a diner up ahead. Let me buy you lunch, okay? No strings attached. If it's a horrible experience for you, just tell me, and I'll never ask you out again," he said hopefully.

"We can have lunch together, Grissom. You don't have to buy," she said, a small smile forming as she shook her head lightly.

"I did ask you out, Sara," he said gently.

"And I did say you didn't have to pay," she pointed out.

"Fair enough," Grissom said, sensing this wasn't a battle he was going to win.

* * *

Sara smiled over her drink, enjoying the meal far more than she thought she would. The conversation had been stimulating, the food delicious and the mood festive. Spending time with a man who appreciated your intelligence and expressed an interest in your background did wonders for your ego. Setting down her glass, she started to answer his question.

"No, the Pauli Exclusion Principle prevents … excuse me," she said when her pager began to vibrate. Pulling out the device, she frowned before turning to her companion. "I'm sorry, Max. I have to go."

Looking down at the table, he shook his head in irritation before giving her a rueful smile. Signaling the waiter, he asked for the check.

"You don't have to leave," Sara said softly. This was their second dinner to be interrupted by her work. He hadn't complained, but she could tell he wasn't happy.

"Well, the last time this happened, it ended up being a false alarm. If this is another one, we can continue our date some place else," he said, escorting her out of the building.

"You're upset."

"Worried," he replied.

"Why?" Sara asked as they walked towards the parking garage.

"I did this routine for more years than I care to remember. I worked all through high school, through college, then getting my company founded. I put in sixteen hours a day, six or seven days a week, never took a vacation."

"I'm not that bad," she said. On occasion, she had taken a long weekend. True, it was usually to attend a conference or a lecture, but she wasn't at work at the time.

"Good. Until I ended up in the hospital with that skull fracture, I had never gone more than two days in a row without working since I was 12."

"How long were you in the hospital?"

"Nearly three weeks," he chuckled. "For the first couple of days, I thought I'd go crazy or the nurses would push me out the window. I kept trying to have a laptop sneaked in so I could work. Then I had an epiphany."

"Really?" she said, smiling at his exaggerated motions.

"Really. The world would continue without me. The sun would rise if I didn't go to work. My employees could handle everything," he said softly, turning to give her a sharp look. "No successful organization relies on the efforts of one person."

"I don't think that," she said shortly, walking over to her Yukon.

"I never said you did. I just don't want to see you repeating the same mistakes I made."

"This job is time-sensitive. Evidence can get destroyed or degrade quickly."

"And time is linear. You can't go back and relive your life. If you work too much, you'll miss out on other things."

"Are you telling me I need to get a life?" she asked, turning to face him.

"I would never say anything that condescending. You have a life, and you use it to help others. That's a very noble thing. But your job doesn't have to be the only aspect of your life."

"Look, I need to change before I go to the scene. Can I call you later?" Sara asked, not wanting to have this discussion in a parking garage.

"Do you have a change of clothes with you? Then let me drive while you change. I'll behave. That way, if it's a bust, we can leave. If not, I'll call a cab."

Sara considered his offer, calling dispatch to get details of the crime location. It wasn't that far away. If nothing else, she'd get there quicker this way. She tried not to think about how Grissom would react if he were at the crime scene when they arrived together.

Of course, he already knew she was planning on seeing Max tonight. Grissom had been very attentive during their lunch yesterday. It would have been unnerving if she hadn't recognized he had been nervous. Grissom had given her a way out. All she had to do was say she hadn't enjoyed the lunch.

Life would be so much easier if she could have lied to him, but it hadn't been a disaster. Showing up at a crime scene with Max might be, though. Well, only one way to find out. She was tired of changing her life to suit Grissom.

"Okay," she said, hopping in the back and tossing him the keys. "But behave."

"I'll remember my grandmother's lessons."

"About being a gentleman?"

"About never pissing off a woman who owns a gun and knows how to use it."

Laughing, Sara quickly wrote down directions to the crime scene and handed them to Max before she pulled a bag from the back of the SUV. Sliding down low on the seat, she started to change as he pulled into traffic. When he started humming the tune to 'The Stripper' she shot him a wide-eyed stare, but he was watching the road intently.

"I'm being good," he said. "You can't hold it against a guy if he daydreams."

"Just keep your eye on the traffic. I don't want to end up in the hospital half-naked!"

Chuckling, he headed out of the city and into a sparsely populated suburban area. The swarm of flashing lights and media vans marked their destination. They pulled off the road near the entrance to a drive-in theater. Grabbing her kit, Sara and Max walked through the crowd, both exchanging looks at the intense reactions from the people.

"I don't think this is going to be a bust," she said. "Why don't you call a cab and head home? I'll probably be here a while."

"I think I'll be staying," he said, nodding toward the front of the crowd.

"Why?" Sara asked, twisting her head and then standing on the tips of her toes to try and see what had caught his attention. The crowd blocked her view. She could occasionally make out the row of police vehicles lined up in front of the milling groups of people. It seemed like all the activity was focused near the theater's screen.

"Here," he said, stopping to brace himself against a light pole.

"Is your leg bothering you?"

"No, I just want to make sure it doesn't give out on me. I don't want to drop you," he said, reaching over and wrapping his free arm around her waist, easily lifting her up above the throngs. From her new vantage point, she could understand his earlier statement.

A severed head was suspended from the center of the movie screen. Underneath it ran a six-foot high swath of bloody writing. From this distance, it didn't resemble any of the equations from the first two scenes, but she couldn't be sure.

Lowering her down gently, they exchanged another look before continuing their progress through the crowd, surprised when they bumped into Greg, who was going through the spectators, snapping photos.

"Crowd shots," Sara whispered. "Serial killers sometimes come back to the scene."

"Hey, guys," he called out enthusiastically. "Grissom let me tag along to help!"

The lab tech followed behind them, using the wake Max created as he bore through the crowd to take more photos. Finally reaching the front, Sara gave her date a smile as she slid under the tape and headed towards the scene. Max turned his attention towards the screen, while Greg started talking to David, who was leading a gurney towards them. After a quick introduction, Max asked for a sheet of paper, and started walking along the tapeline, trying to get a better view of the screen.

"That's Sara's boyfriend," Greg whispered to David.

"Really?"

"Height. Must be height that she likes," the tech sighed, watching the crowds part as the mathematician moved along. "First Hank, now this guy."

"Excessive musculature," the coroner's assistant opined on the approach to the body.

From the front of the crowd, Max could see the body swaying under the catwalk that ran along the front of the screen. On the screen, a series of grids had been drawn out, each segment containing writing. Taking out a pen, he quickly began jotting down notes.

Sara and Grissom locked eyes as she walked over to join her teammates. From his light facial tic, she surmised he had noticed Max and wasn't happy about it. At least he wasn't making a scene. Breaking eye contact first, she saw Brass's openly bemused expression and smiled at him.

"Sara, when Warrick gets done processing the catwalk, I need you to get up there and take the individual photos of the writing. Greg's already taken the locator shots," Grissom said after greetings were exchanged.

"Something wrong?" she asked cautiously. He was noticeably on edge, and she doubted Max accounted for all of it.

"Scene's been compromised. Stevie Wilson there," Brass said, pointing over his shoulder at the head, "was the assistant manager. Always gets here first. When the concession workers showed up, they assumed he'd already made his way to the projection booth, and let the audience in. Some of the more adventurous thought this was a stunt, and checked out the body."

"Dammit!" Sara exclaimed loudly. This scene was more exposed. The killer would have less control over it, making it more likely he left some sort of clue. The odds they'd be able to find it just dropped dramatically.

"There's nothing we can do about it now," Grissom sighed. "Come on, David's got the body down. Check the area around the body. It looks like Warrick found something. He's going to be up there for a while."

"Right," she said, walking over to the area slowly, examining the multitude of footprints in disgust. Even if the killer had left a print behind, they'd never be able to retrieve it down here. Warrick was setting up the electrostatic print-lifter on the catwalk; hopefully he'd find something useful.

"So that's our mathematician," Brass said once Sara walked out of hearing distance.

"Yes," Grissom said brusquely.

"Big guy."

"You could say that."

Brass kept his humor in check, the annoyance clear in the other man's body language. He'd been with Grissom when Sara and Brandenburg arrived, and his colleague's irritation had gone through the roof when she was hoisted above the crowd.

"Younger than I expected for a retired consultant."

"If he's actually retired."

The police captain allowed a smile to form as Grissom turned to stare back at the mathematician. Looking at the bloody writing dripping slowly down the screen, Brass nodded his head towards the crowds.

"I don't think this is what the audience was expecting for tonight's featured entertainment."

"No one comes to drive-ins for what's on the screen, Jim," Grissom stated, taking a moment to scan the audience. His anger rose when he spotted the television cameras focused on the tall mathematician, who was jotting down notes. "Dammit! He's talking to the press. Let's go."

Barreling over to the tapeline, Brass and Grissom could see the confused looks passing among the reporters as Brandenburg gestured wildly. The police captain began to chuckle as they came close enough to hear him babbling away in Russian.

"Do svidanya!" he called out, waving enthusiastically as the reporters left, shaking their heads in defeat.

"Nice trick," Brass said with a chuckle. "Wish I could get away with it. Jim Brass, Homicide. You're Professor Brandenburg?"

"Call me Max," he said, pausing long enough to shake hands with the detective and then forcing his way down the crowd to get a view of another section of the screen.

"Anything you can tell us, Dr. Brandenburg?" Grissom asked coolly.

Smiling, the mathematician continued to jot down notes, glancing up at the scene or the other two men on occasion.

"I'm sure there's all kinds of things I _know _that you don't, Dr. Grissom," he said lightly, raising an amused eyebrow when he saw the entomologist's upset look.

"How about anything to do with this case?" the detective asked before another murder broke out at their scene. Grissom had actually bristled after the younger man's insinuation.

"I can tell you this was done by a very poor mathematician," he muttered angrily, glaring at a spectator who had bumped into his sore leg. The gawker quickly backpedaled, offering a hasty apology. Looking around, Brandenburg leaned over the tape, trying to get some privacy in the crowd.

"Are you missing something from the first murder, by any chance?"

The two exchanged a shocked look before Grissom bellowed out for Greg, who came charging up to his supervisor.

"Get the film to the lab and tell them to rush the prints. Get copies to Dr. Brandenburg immediately. We'll be back in the lab as soon as we can. Will you be able to meet with us later?" Grissom asked.

"I can wait in the lab if there's someplace I can work."

After Grissom nodded his consent, Greg led Brandenburg away. Heading towards the screen, he walked towards Sara slowly. It was taking all his control to not yell at her. What the hell did she see it that guy? He openly implied that he and Sara were in a sexual situation, and used it as a taunt. She deserved better than someone who would treat her that way.

Grissom didn't believe the innuendo. They hadn't known each other that long. Sara wasn't the type to jump into a physical relationship that quickly. She'd have more direct in turning down his dinner request yesterday if she'd gotten serious with Brandenburg.

That guy was going to hurt her.

Closing his eyes, Grissom let out a long breath before continuing his quest. She was an adult, more than capable of handling a louse like Brandenburg. Sara wasn't naïve. She'd eventually recognize the mathematician for what he was.

And she wouldn't want to hear any of this from him. It would make him seem petty. Grissom recognized he wasn't on stable ground with Sara. He needed to re-establish their friendship. Ratting out the rat wouldn't go over well.

"Yes!"

He snapped his head up at her joyful yell. Quickly crossing the remaining distance, he knelt down behind her as she snapped some photos. Turning around to give a full-fledged grin, she used her forceps to hold up the remnants of a bloody brush.

_TBC_


	7. Ch 7

**Cardinality  
****Summary:** A serial killer is stalking the citizens of Las Vegas. Started out as a case file but the G/S aspect demanded equal representation. This is the edited version for this site. The original version can be found at my web site.  
**Rating:** R for subject matter  
**A/N**: No real spoilers. Many thanks to Burked for teaching me how to be a serial killer, among many other things.  
**Disclaimer**: Obviously, I don't own anything related to CSI. If I did, certain characters would be getting more screen time – together!

* * *

"_I cannot help it; in spite of myself, infinity torments me."_ – Alfred de Musset

**Chapter 7**

Dawn was approaching when Sara and Catherine arrived with the first batch of evidence from the theater. After logging it in, they headed towards the A/V lab, where Archie was excitedly talking with Brandenburg. When he saw their approach, me limped out to the hallway to join them.

"Make a new friend?" Catherine teased.

"I was showing him how to nest."

"I'm not sure I want to know the story behind that," Sara said with a grin.

"It's an old computer technique for speeding up computations. With today's faster processors, it's rarely used anymore. I explained it to Archie as I was getting some printouts ready for the briefing."

"Could you make out what that writing meant?"

"Actually, the math was pretty straightforward this time, Catherine. What it means to the killer is another question."

"Are you okay?" Sara asked softly. His limp was more pronounced than it had been earlier.

"I'm fine. I've just been standing too long. I'll be okay once I get home. I'll soak in the hot tub for a while. That'll get the swelling down."

"I guess that's one way of getting it back down," the blonde said, flashing Sara a knowing grin. Her colleague gave her an evil glare as they entered the Layout Room. "I think we can all use a vacation when this case is over."

"I don't imagine salmon fishing in Alaska wouldn't appeal to you," Max said, turning to smile at Sara.

"No, not really."

"How about snorkeling off the Grand Caymans? Visiting the volcanoes on Hawaii? A road trip to see the world's biggest ball of twine? Dollywood?"

"Why?" she asked with a laugh.

"So I know what to tempt you with," he said, grinning wickedly at her wide-eyed stare.

"You certainly don't waste any time," a surprised Catherine sputtered.

"No, I don't. Life's too short. I identify what I want, I formulate a plan and I go for it. That's how I ended up where I am today," he replied honestly.

Sara turned to stare at him, wondering if she should be flattered or not. While it was nice to have a man openly express an interest, his explanation had sounded almost impersonal. Max could easily have his choice of women. Hadn't he called her a "challenge" before? Was that all she was?

Sensing her confusion, Max turned to walk to her, but his knee buckled. Both CSIs moved to help him, Catherine grabbing his elbow while Sara slipped her arms around his waist. He rested his hand on her shoulder for support and gave her a smile, but it barely masked the pain.

"Thanks," he said softly, as he gingerly tried putting some weight on his injured leg.

"Sure," Sara replied, her voice equally calm as she watched him closely.

Nothing Max had done suggested he thought of her as a conquest. He'd been polite, respectful and friendly. His gifts had been excessive, but he had never tried to use them for leverage. He hadn't applied any pressure for a physical relationship.

She kept one arm around his waist, and rested the other hand on his chest as she helped him walk over to the table in the center of the room. Leaning against it, Max gave her an embarrassed smile and thanked her again.

Was he overcompensating? He'd mentioned he came from a very poor family. Although he had a scholarship, Max had worked through college to help his parents. At an Ivy League school, that would have made him the brunt of jokes. She remembered the way the full-scholarship students she'd known at Harvard had been treated.

Whatever it was, it was something they needed to talk about. Now was neither the time nor place, though.

"I think I have some ibuprofen in my locker. Would that help?" she asked softly, giving his arm a gentle squeeze after he nodded. Turning around, she paused when she saw Grissom staring at them intently, his expression clearly hurt.

Max glanced up when she stopped, easily finding the source of her discomfort. Using the table as a brace, he straightened up, giving Grissom a measured look. Despite Sara's assurances, it was obvious her boss was giving her troubles.

If his suspicions were correct, the man viewed Sara as his private property, and that rankled the mathematician. The entomologist had had plenty of opportunity to let her know he was interested in her. She deserved better than a man who not only denied her his company, but wanted to keep others from making her happy.

"Excuse me," Sara said as she twisted around to slide between Grissom and the doorframe.

For his part, Grissom watched her go in confusion. He'd been there to overhear the end of their conversation, and Brandenburg's comments had left him equally baffled. Sara was probably one of the least materialistic people he'd ever known. She couldn't be impressed by the money the mathematician was spending on her. Why didn't she tell him to stop with the expensive presents?

Walking into the room he noticed both Catherine and Brandenburg watching him. His friend seemed like she couldn't decide whether to be amused or embarrassed. The mathematician clearly wasn't happy.

Catherine decided to defuse the situation before the tension in the room got any worse. Walking over to the table, she looked at the stacks of printouts Brandenburg had arranged earlier, and then fixed Grissom with a pointed look.

"Say Max, we really appreciate all the time you've put into this. You've been a big help to the lab."

"For you, I have all the time in the world," he replied lightly, turning to give her a teasing look.

"One advantage of being unemployed."

When the other two turned to stare at him, Grissom realized he had actually said that out loud. From Catherine's evil glare, it must have sounded as rude as he thought it did. Belatedly, he smiled, trying to turn it into a joke.

"Or of being successful," the mathematician said, smiling at Grissom openly.

"Yeah," Catherine said quickly. "So, you thinking of going back to work? You're spending a lot of time here."

"I don't think I'd like being a CSI."

"Really?" Grissom said coolly.

"No. I don't think I could become detached enough. I don't know which would be worse: waking up each morning wondering if I was going to see something that would shock me, or worrying if there was nothing left that could faze me."

Catherine swore silently as her pager went off. It was Vega; they had been working a drive-by shooting. She couldn't ignore him. Hopefully, she wouldn't have to investigate another killing when she came back. The way those two were staring at each other, she expected them to literally start butting heads.

"Behave," she whispered softly to Grissom as she walked out.

Shaking her head, she spotted Sara in the DNA lab, in-between an animated Jacqui and Greg. She smiled ruefully when she saw Sara holding the bloody brush carefully, looking at it through the desk-mounted magnifying glass. She wouldn't want to be the mediator in that mess.

Greg would need to swab the brush for DNA before Jacqui could print it, since the chemicals she used would contaminate the blood evidence. But Greg could easily destroy the prints while collecting the swabs. Finding areas he could test that wouldn't ruin the prints was a tricky business, especially on a round brush. It would be harder to rule out areas least likely to have a print.

Walking by the doorway, she knocked lightly and pointed her thumb back at the Layout Room, hinting for Sara to get back as soon as possible. The brunette dropped her head, before turning her attention back to the brush, trying to find a compromise for the two lab techs.

Back in the Layout Room, Grissom walked around to the opposite side of the table as the mathematician sorted through his notes. His casual smile indicated he had heard Catherine's parting comment. That the younger man found it amusing didn't help his mood any.

Catherine had been correct. Brandenburg was helping the lab. Everyone else seemed to like him, for some unknown reason. Grissom found it hard to believe he would like the man even if he weren't involved with Sara, but had to admit he wasn't exactly impartial.

What did Sara see in Brandenburg? It could be physical, he supposed, but that wasn't a judgment Grissom felt qualified to make. He frowned lightly as he realized that probably wasn't one of the reasons Sara was attracted to him – he'd let himself go a bit over the last year.

He had ruled out the presents. She wasn't impressed by wealth. Could it be the attention? Maybe a simple acknowledgement of her was enough. All it had taken to keep her from leaving before was a plant. That may have worked once, but he needed to find a better way.

"Dangerous line of work you're in."

Grissom looked up to find the mathematician still going through his notes.

"It can be, but we take precautions," he replied, wondering where the younger man was going with this line of conversation.

"If you know what to look out for."

"Such as?"

Brandenburg regarded him carefully, weighing what he knew and had observed about Grissom. It hadn't left a good impression. He had told Sara his friends at the F.B.I. considered Grissom colorful. That had been a polite rephrasing of their comments.

No one questioned the entomologist's technical skill or knowledge, but his personality was another matter. He had a reputation of being difficult. He guarded his cases and information with a noticeable jealous streak. On occasion, Grissom had been known to treat people as experiments, rather than as people.

Brandenburg had worked on enough government contracts to know there was an element of inter-agency rivalry going on, but that didn't explain it all. The comments had been too consistent from too many people. Add in his own observations, and he'd reached the conclusion that Grissom was possessive. He wasn't willing to make the effort to make Sara happy, but he wouldn't let her go, either.

Not a nice guy, as his grandmother would say. Was Grissom even aware of the consequences of his actions?

"Long-term impact. 'He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.'"

"Nietzsche," Grissom supplied.

"Humans are social creatures, even if one is a loner," Brandenburg said, looking across the table at Grissom. "We judge our behavior by those around us. It sets the boundaries on what we consider to be acceptable."

"And?" Grissom asked shortly.

"Consider who you're around all the time. It has to color your perceptions. So what if you're rude, at least you didn't assault someone. Once you're comfortable with that, what does it matter if you're cruel, at least you didn't abuse someone. And once you become use to being emotionally abusive, Dr. Grissom, what follows after that?"

"I wouldn't know," he said quietly, turning to read one of the files he had brought in with him.

Despite his implications, Brandenburg was correct in a way. Some of the meanest people Grissom knew had worked in law enforcement. Being constantly surrounded by the worst of mankind did leave a mark on some people's souls.

But he wasn't like that. He didn't deliberately hurt people. Sara had to know that. Hopefully. What had Catherine said – how did his behavior look from Sara's perspective? No. Even if she thought he'd been deliberately mean, she wouldn't have told Brandenburg.

And it wasn't like the mathematician was in any position to judge. His innuendo from the theater still made Grissom angry. He was crass and lowbrow. Sara deserved someone who would treat her better than that.

Could he do it? He wanted to, but he couldn't express his feelings for her as openly. Part of it was professional; if they ever managed to get together, they would need to keep it outside of the lab. He could never send her expensive presents to work. The rest was personality. He just wasn't that demonstrative.

It was all confusing.

His contemplation was broken by Sara's approach. She stood outside the lab with a cup of water and a bottle of pills. Brandenburg made his way slowly across the room for the painkillers. Taking the empty cup, she tossed it away and brought in a stool for him. The rest of the team began wandering in as he thanked her.

While the others took up positions around the table, Brass leaned against the doorframe. "Max, remember some of us aren't scientists. Keep it simple, okay?"

"Certainly, but this isn't that difficult. The killer followed a fairly simple pattern this time," he said, moving the stool in front of the clear board. He then began drawing a 3-by-3 grid on the board. Starting with the center cell on the top row, Brandenburg wrote in the number one, and continued filling in the others cells.

8 1 6

3 5 7

4 9 2

"This is what is known as a magic square. If you add up the numbers in any row, column or along the diagonals, you'll get the same value. For a square this size, the sum is 15. The pattern to generate a magic square is pretty trivial for an odd-numbered grid," he said, limping towards the table.

"What the killer did at this scene was to paint four separate grids on the movie screen. Each one holds a different proof. He broke down each proof into sections, and followed that pattern," he said, pointing to the magic square on the board, "to fill in the cells."

He nodded to Sara, who passed him a photo showing one of the bloody grids. "The proof starts here," he said, pointing towards the top, center cell, "and is continued here," he said, moving his marker to the bottom, right cell. "And it continues for the rest of the proof."

"And all four of the grids follow the same pattern," Grissom confirmed.

"Yes, but the guy made a mistake. The cells holding the last two values are mixed up."

"The killer made mistakes at the other scenes, right?"

Brandenburg nodded at Warrick. "That's correct. I went back and reviewed the files from the first two murders. Some of them are simple transcription errors. He copied it down wrong on one line, but it was correct on the next. Some of the mistakes were true errors, though. They are fairly basic algebraic mistakes at the second scene, trig mistakes at the first."

"You don't think this was done by a mathematician, then?" Brass called out from the doorway.

"Not likely. The mistakes being made are relatively simple. I can't see how he'd have passed high school algebra, let alone a college-level class with that poor of an understanding of basic math skills."

"Or it's a mathematician with a hidden agenda."

Everyone stared at Grissom after his statement. They all swung to look across the room when Brandenburg responded.

"Or not so hidden."

"Or not as clever as he thinks."

"What made you ask if we were missing something from the first murder?" the police captain asked quickly. As much as he enjoyed the display, they had a case. Heads turned to Brass then back to Brandenburg. Besides Grissom, no one else on the team had heard his suggestive statement about Sara at the crime scene, and he wasn't about to make that public.

"Each of the grids contain an inductive proof," Brandenburg said, looking over at Brass. Seeing his confused look, he walked back to the board, and began writing out some addition problems.

"Induction, along with deduction and contradiction, are the three acceptable forms of mathematical proofs. Induction is typically used to show that a formula is true. The classic example is the formula for finding the sum of the integers between 1 and _n_. In that case, you multiply _n_ by _n 1_ and divide by two," he said, jotting the equation on the board.

_Sum n(n 1)÷2 _

"Let's take _n 4_ for an example:

1 2 3 4 10

4 x 5 20

20 ÷ 2 10

Okay?"

"Fine," Brass said.

"All right," Brandenburg said, writing another series of equations. "In all inductive proofs, the initial step is to always show that the formula is true for the first value. In our example, it would be for _n 1_."

1 1

1 x 2 2

2 ÷ 2 1

He paused to look around the room, making sure everyone had followed him, ending with Brass who nodded his understanding. "In all four of these proofs, the killer left out that very first step."

"He's taunting us," Grissom said. Seeing the confused look on the mathematician's face, he explained. "We never found the first victim."

"How do you know there was a first victim, then?"

"The killer is taking the blood from the previous victim and using it at the current scene," Grissom said.

"A generator," mumbled Brandenburg, as he shoved a pencil between his cast and arm, scratching furiously as he turned to look the photos.

"What?" Grissom said quickly.

"A generator. In a lot of cases, it's very easy to come up with a mathematical representation of a problem. The trouble is these problems can rarely be solved directly in real-life. Sometimes, a simplified approach is used. I'm sure you've had that problem."

"Wind resistance," Sara added. "You work with an approximation, since the actual formulas are too complicated."

"Exactly. Sometimes there's no way to find a simplification. In that case, you perform a type of numerical analysis. A common way is to pick a value that should be close to the expected answer. You stick that number into the formula and see what value you get. You then you can plug that new value back into the equations, to get a new value. You keep doing this until you get the answer."

"Does this relate to the other equations?" Catherine asked.

"Not that I can see. But this latest scene made me wonder if the killer is using the math as a vehicle for the message rather than as the message itself," Brandenburg said.

Grissom turned to regard him carefully. It was a possibility.

"It would also explain the mistakes. The killer doesn't really understand the math, but for some reason, it appeals to him," Brandenburg continued.

"Then what are the messages from the first two scenes?" Grissom asked, moving closer the mathematician.

The taller man shrugged as he rubbed his cast over his chin thoughtfully.

"The first set of equations dealt with polar coordinates, but he transformed the equations into much more difficult forms. A transformation, perhaps? Or the shapes are all curves. Something to do with twists or turns?

"The second series dealt with complex equations. Complex numbers have real and imaginary parts. He was trying to deform the contours. Changes, complexity, imaginary, not real …" he trailed off, yawning and moving to stand next to Sara. He gave her a friendly smile as he leaned against the table, taking some of the weight off his knee. "Or we're reading too much into them."

Grissom looked at the mathematician pointedly, trying to avoid Sara. He didn't want to see if she was returning his smile.

"You have experience as a psychological profiler, too?" Grissom asked, a trace of sarcasm evident in his voice.

The younger man looked at Grissom sharply. "Who knows why a crazy man does anything?" Brandenburg asked, stretching out his arm and resting it on the table behind Sara.

"What makes you think this is the work of a 'crazy man'?" Grissom countered, his irritation creeping into his voice. The symbolism of Brandenburg's action wasn't lost on him.

Sara looked up to dart her eyes between the two men in confusion. Their behavior made no sense whatsoever.

"Killing someone, draining their blood and leaving messages in someone else's blood doesn't exactly strike me as the work of someone in full control of their mental facilities," he said calmly, a hint of a smile on his face.

"Less than five percent of all serial killers are insane," Grissom stated.

Sara turned to look at Catherine, who rolled her eyes. She noticed Warrick and Nick staring at her, and Brass looked like he was trying not to laugh. What was going on? Why were people watching her?

She blinked slowly, turning back to stare at the two professors in confusion. Was this some sort of competition? Why? They were in completely unrelated fields. There was nothing for them to be arguing about.

Oh, no.

They weren't fighting over her. No. They wouldn't dare. No. Neither of them could possibly be that stupid.

They couldn't be.

"By the legal definition. All that states is that the killer had to be aware that what they were doing was wrong. Whether they had any control over it or not, or if they had any other issues, aren't taken into account, are they Dr. Grissom?"

"I merely process the evidence, Dr. Brandenburg. I don't presume to be an expert outside of my field."

"Right? Bugs, isn't it?" he said with a dismissive shrug.

The two men didn't break eye contact as Catherine shoved Nick and Warrick out of the room. Sara darted her eyes to Brass who looked as thunderstruck as she felt.

"And nearly thirty years experience."

"That's true. You've been at this a very long time," Brandenburg said slyly. "Since I was in middle school."

Sara felt her temper rising. They were that stupid – both of them.

Brass, recognizing the danger signs, let out an exaggerated yawn, drawing the attention towards himself and away from the blossoming confrontation in the Layout Room.

"Sorry, tired. This is getting to all of us. Let's take a break. Gil, I just remembered something. Come here," Brass said, heading out the door. Once they had walked down the hallways a bit, he turned to face his friend, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Didn't your mother ever tell you that it's rude to mark your territory in front of company?"

"What?"

"You're lucky Sara didn't hand both of you your cojones after that routine. He doesn't know her well enough to know how stupid that was, but you should."

"Jim…"

"Save it," Brass said shortly. "Look, I don't care what you do in your private life, but keep it out of the lab."

"I don't know what…"

"Give it a rest! What are you trying to do? Out-alpha the guy? Look at him! Don't start fights you can't win," he said quietly before walking back into the Layout Room.

Reluctantly returning to the room, he endured Sara's brief, angry glare before she walked back to the table. Brandenburg was sitting on the stool by the board. Surprisingly, he seemed sheepish. He had expected the younger man to be gloating; he had fared far better in the exchange.

"Okay," Brass said with forced joviality. "Anything else you can tell us, Max?"

"Have you linked the victims yet?"

"No," Sara stated coldly.

The mathematician gave her a brief look. Her irritation was obvious. Oddly, Grissom found that refreshing. At least he wasn't the only one in trouble.

"If you can get me any numerical information about them, birthdays, addresses, phone numbers, I'll try a pattern-recognition. It's one of the areas my company specialized in."

"Good, good," Brass said. "Sara and I can get that for you right now. Why don't you wait in the break room, Max? You can rest your leg. It seems to be bothering you."

"Thanks."

Leaving the room after the mathematician, Brass directed Sara to the A/V Lab. She glared at all the workers they passed, silently daring anyone to talk to her. How could they have done that? Some women may have found the idea of two men fighting over them romantic, but it merely pissed Sara off.

She wasn't some sort of trophy for them to rut over. She picked who she wanted to be with, and excess testosterone wasn't in her criteria. Right now, neither man seemed all that desirable.

Max at least had the common sense to say he was sorry immediately after Brass and Grissom had left. He had sounded sincere, too, apologizing for any embarrassment he may have caused her. He didn't try to rationalize his behavior, but she suspected his pain may have contributed to his short temper.

Grissom's attitude hadn't completely surprised her; his jealousy wasn't one of his endearing traits. It still hurt, though. He had been making an effort to improve his behavior, but it hadn't taken much for him to revert to his old ways.

Dammit! She had such hopes for him.

Sara paused briefly. It was true; she still had hopes they would get together. As nice as Max was, she wasn't in love with him. In time, she might fall for him, but she couldn't deny Grissom still held her heart, whether he appreciated it or not.

Brass looked at her with a bemused expression when she halted suddenly at the doorway.

"Don't say a word," she breathed heavily as she entered the room.

"Sorry, doll, but there's something you need to know. Max made a … joke … at the crime scene that Gil didn't appreciate. That display back there didn't come out of nowhere."

"What kind of joke?"

"The kind that Gil doesn't appreciate. He probably thought Max was being rude," Brass explained kindly, not adding that Sara had been the subject of the comment.

"Thanks," she said as they gathered the materials. At least that helped to explain Grissom's behavior, even if it didn't do much to dissipate her anger.

After giving the computer disk to Max, Sara escorted him from the building. Not only was she worried about his leg giving out again, she needed to drive him back to the parking garage to get his car. Walking past Grissom's office, she gave him a quick look.

His dejected expression was enough to make her start. Leading Max outside, she could understand how this was hard on Grissom. That was the first conversation she'd ever seen that he couldn't dominate. If the whole exchange hadn't been so pathetic, it would have been, well, pathetic.

Max was younger, bigger and at least in same intelligence range. Damn male ego. He obviously had felt threatened by Max.

What did she have to do? His alpha-male stunts didn't impress her. All she wanted was his respect and trust. If Grissom could manage that, the rest would follow naturally. Getting him to understand that was the hard part. Eventually she'd have to talk to him, but right now she was too angry.

Letting out a long sigh, Grissom ran his fingers through his hair after they left. He'd screwed this up badly. There had to be a way he could make it up to Sara. If he didn't, she'd never forgive him and any chances of their developing a relationship would be over.

Worse, Brandenburg would be there to pick up the pieces. Sara couldn't be too angry with him if she was leaving with him. She could have easily called him a cab. Dammit. As long as Brandenburg was around, she had a better alternative.

Watching the mathematician leave, Grissom couldn't help but wonder if there were any sling-wielding shepherds in Las Vegas.

_TBC_


	8. Ch 8

**Cardinality  
****Summary:** A serial killer is stalking the citizens of Las Vegas. Started out as a case file but the G/S aspect demanded equal representation. This is the edited version for this site. The original version can be found at my web site.  
**Rating:** R for subject matter  
**A/N**: No real spoilers. Many thanks to Burked for teaching me how to be a serial killer, among many other things.  
**Disclaimer**: Obviously, I don't own anything related to CSI. If I did, certain characters would be getting more screen time – together!

* * *

"_I cannot help it; in spite of myself, infinity torments me."_ – Alfred de Musset

**Chapter 8**

Grissom swore silently as he entered the morgue. From the looks Al and David gave him, he presumed the news of his earlier encounter with Brandenburg had already made its way down here. So much for keeping this private.

In hindsight, confronting the mathematician in public probably hadn't been the wisest thing to do. Not only did he lose the battle, but Sara probably thought he was a loser. The exchange highlighted all his shortcomings. At least Brandenburg shared that same fate.

Maybe.

Sara did leave with him. And after giving Brandenburg a ride, she had never returned to the lab. True, her shift had ended, but it wasn't like her to not work a double when they were working a hot case. Unless she found something hotter.

Damn. No, this was Sara. She wasn't like that. The Mile High Club had been a youthful indiscretion, not an indication of her character. Brandenburg's performance couldn't have impressed her. No. She wasn't involved with him. Yet. Her bawdy jokes in the break room after she first met him were just that: jokes. She hadn't become involved with Brandenburg.

Please.

If he were lucky, the sheriff wouldn't find out about the entire incident. Treating a consultant – even a volunteer – like that was inexcusable. It did nothing to promote the image of the lab. If he were really lucky, Sara would forgive him.

Unfortunately, he didn't believe in luck.

"You paged," Grissom said directly, wishing to avoid any discussion of the incident.

"I did," Robbins said with a amused expression. "Stevie Wilson died by suffocation"

"Really? Not internal bleeding?"

"No, but he would have eventually. There was a blunt-force blow to the chest. He was bleeding out, but not quickly enough for the killer," Robbins said, pointing to the wounds on the corpse's knuckles.

"Defensive wounds?"

"Looks that way. There's also scrapes on the knees, elbows and palms," he said, pointing each out before moving to the victim's head. "One blow to the face. Caused heavy bleeding from the nose. We also found fibers in the nostrils. Looks like some sort of fleece. We've sent them to Trace, and David sent swabs from the nose and knuckles to DNA."

"Any idea yet why this victim didn't die as quickly as the others?"

"We won't know for certain until we get the tox screens back. He may not have been as responsive to the drug, or he didn't ingest as much of it."

"You sound like you have an idea," Grissom said, cocking his head to look at Robbins.

"If the killer has a limited supply of warfarin, he might have been cutting back on the dosage. Trying to conserve his supply for more victims."

"Seeing how little he can use and still be effective."

"Right. But there's no way of predicting what's a lethal dosage of warfarin. Body mass isn't a factor. If anything, he's been using a too low a dosage. To make sure he's giving a toxic amount, he should have been increasing the amount he's giving."

"And in this case, he went too low. It was still enough to kill the victim, but not immediately incapacitate him."

"Possibly. You also have to consider the first victim was older and not in great shape. The second victim had a blow to the back of the head. He probably was knocked out immediately by that."

"Thanks, Al," Grissom said, leaving the room when his pager began going off.

* * *

Sara had just pulled back the covers on her bed when the knocking started. Letting out a sigh, she headed to the front door, pondering who would be visiting. Her wonderment turned to confusion when she found her boss standing in the hallway.

"Sara, … oh, did I come at a bad time?" Grissom asked after taking in her pajamas. He glanced into the apartment nervously, hoping to find her alone, but fearing the worse.

Sara let out a disgusted breath when she noticed his actions. "You missed the orgy, Grissom. It ended an hour ago."

"I didn't want to interrupt if you had, uh, company."

"I was on my way to bed. Alone," she said.

"Oh. I can come back later, if you want…"

"Since when do you care what I want?"

"Sara," he paused. She clearly was still angry with him. Very angry, judging by her glare. Worse, she was making no attempt to disguise the fact. Fearing he may have damaged his chances beyond repair, Grissom tried to figure out how to proceed.

It would be easier, less painful to bow out now. Knowing that Sara had chosen Brandenburg over him would be too much to handle. No, removing himself from the equation would be safer. That would give him the illusion that it had been his decision to quash this.

But it wouldn't make it any easier to face Sara every day, knowing he'd never have the chance to be the one to make her happy. It wouldn't make his life seem any less empty. How could he make things right if she wouldn't even talk to him?

Seeing his crestfallen look, Sara let out a long sigh and brusquely waved him in. She wasn't really ready to forgive him for that scene earlier, but he seemed so morose. It was uncharacteristic, not only to his personality, but that he would allow her to see it.

"Make it quick, Grissom. I really am tired," she said softly.

He followed her into the apartment, but remained standing when she sank into a corner of the couch, pulling an afghan over her.

"This is for you," he said, handing her an envelope.

"Why?" she asked.

"My behavior earlier was inappropriate for the workplace."

"For the workplace?"

Grissom looked at her curiously. Her inflection had been odd. It almost sounded like she was prompting him. From her expression, he gathered Sara hoped he'd say more.

"Inappropriate for anywhere other than the front of a cave twenty thousand years ago," he acknowledged, looking down at his shoes in embarrassment.

She raised an eyebrow at his admission. In all the years she'd known him, it was the closest he'd ever come to offering her an apology.

"It's not much," he said, holding out the envelope again when she continued to watch him.

Breaking eye contact, Sara took the offering and opened it. Inside was a card with an art-print on the cover. A handwritten "I'm sorry" and another envelope were inside.

"I know you like movies," he offered when she pulled out a set of passes to one of the local multi-complexes from the second envelope.

"Thank you," she said, wondering which was more surprising: that he had apologized, or that he actually knew something about her personally.

"If you don't like that theater, I can get passes from another one."

"No, this is fine," she said, flipping through the tickets. "How many movies were you planning on seeing?"

"What? No, I wasn't fishing for a date. I don't expect you to go with me. I mean, I'll gladly go with you, if you want, but there's no obligation. If you'd rather go by yourself, or with a friend, that's your choice."

"Yes, it is," she said firmly, setting the tickets down on the end table.

"I … I hope you're not too angry with me, Sara."

She watched him for a long moment, clearly debating how to respond. Her head shook when she finally answered him. "Grissom, that, that scene was pathetic."

"I know," he said.

Sara resisted the urge to roll her eyes at his downtrodden expression. She wasn't talking about his performance, but the fact he even participated in the showdown. Still, it had to have been painful for him. Max's final dig had to be especially hard to bear; she suspected their age difference was something that bothered Grissom.

"I wasn't impressed, by either of you."

Grissom snapped his head up, a hint of a smile forming. That sounded like she was willing to overlook his behavior. "I'd like the chance to make this up to you."

"How?"

"I really don't know," he admitted, shuffling from one foot to the other.

"Oh?"

Grissom paused in his fidgeting to watch her. There was a hint of a challenge in her posture. She might be talking to him, but vague answers weren't going to satisfy her.

"There won't be a repeat of today. At least not on my part."

"That's a damned understatement. What the hell do you think you were doing, anyway?"

"I wasn't the only one involved," he said, unsuccessfully containing his ire.

"I'm not talking about Max. He's already apologized. I'm talking about you. Why did you do that?"

"I really don't know."

"That answer's getting old. Are all your actions out of your control?" she asked in resignation.

"Around you, it feels that way at times."

"Don't try and pin this on me."

"I'm not, honestly, I'm not. It's, I, I don't know how to react around you, Sara. I never seem to say the right thing."

"Lack of practice," she sighed, rolling her eyes when he gave her a quizzical look. "When was the last time you said anything to me? Something worthwhile?"

"What do you consider worthwhile?"

"Tell me what you think. Tell me what you feel, Grissom. I'm not a mind reader. At times, I don't even think I know who you are. Are you ever going to let me in?"

When he didn't answer for several long moments, Sara pushed the afghan off, and started to swing her legs off of the couch. "Never mind," she whispered.

"I think I'm in over my head," he said before she could tell him to see himself out. Sara looked up to watch him, a feeling of sadness coming over her. From his tone and posture, it was clear that had been such a difficult admission for him to make.

"I don't know if I can do this."

"Do you want out?" she asked cautiously. "Are you giving up?"

"Do I even have a chance?" he asked, trying to keep his voice level.

"You always had a chance. You never were interested."

"That's not true," he insisted.

"Then you were never willing to act on it. The result's the same: you chose not to be involved."

"And if I want to get involved now?"

"What's different now, Grissom? Why are you suddenly interested? Are you trying to get rid of Max?"

"Sara, it's complicated. There were some things going on outside of work. I didn't know what type of impact they were going to have on me. It could have been bad, both for my personal life and professionally," he answered.

"Are these 'things' still an issue?"

"No," he said. When she dropped her head against the armrest to stare at the ceiling, he moved to sit gingerly beside her. "Sara?"

"Any other 'things' I should know about?" she asked.

"Probably," he offered lightly. " I promise I'll tell you what they are as soon as I learn about them."

"I'm not joking, Grissom," she said, lifting her head up long enough to fix him with a pointed look.

"I know. Look, I know you're tired. Why don't you come over for dinner tonight? We can talk some more before we go into work."

"How about we meet for breakfast after work? I'm not sure I'll be free tonight."

"Really?" he asked, a trace of ire working its way in.

"Yeah, really," she said forcefully, pushing herself upright. "Max is coming over tonight so we can work on finding a pattern. Since the two of you apparently can't be in the same room together, I didn't think it was a good idea to meet him at the lab."

"Fine," he said, turning around to face away from her so she couldn't see his pain.

The irony of the whole mess wasn't lost on him. It was his being short-tempered with her when this case first broke that sent her to look for a mathematician for help. He sent her to visit the man at his home. Now, it was his behavior last night that was driving her to see Brandenburg even more outside of work.

"Don't start this jealousy shit, Grissom."

"What?" he asked in confusion.

"If you want a shot at this working between us, you're going to have to learn to trust me. I'm trying to trust you."

"Why wouldn't you?" he asked quietly. Her statement both disturbed and delighted him. A shot – she'd neither rejected nor accepted him outright – but she didn't trust him.

"Do you have any idea how much it hurts to be rejected, Grissom?"

"I'm getting a pretty good idea."

"You have no idea," she stated sadly before closing her eyes. Getting up from the couch, she walked over to the door slowly. There'd be time for this conversation later. "I'll see you tonight."

"Sure," he said softly, trying to figure out what Sara was implying.

* * *

"Hello, Sara."

"Hey," she replied, opening the door and watching Max limp into her apartment. "How's your leg?"

"Still a bit sore," he said as he set his briefcase and laptop on her breakfast bar before turning to face her. "I wanted to let you know I sent a letter of apology to everyone that was at the briefing last night. That shouldn't have happened. If you want, I can personally apologize."

"What I want to know is why you even pulled that stunt."

"I'm a defensive idiot," he said seriously. "I don't take insults well. I never have. Whenever someone made a crack at me, I've always overreacted. I really am sorry. You never should have been subjected to that display."

"I don't like being treated like a trophy," she sighed.

"If I was interested in trophies, I'd have gone into sports," he replied kindly.

"Except you're a klutz. You said so yourself."

"There's some physical activities I'm very good at," he quipped trying to lighten the mood. It didn't work. He gave her a contrite shrug. "I happen to be an excellent swimmer."

"Are you always so competitive?"

"I can be. Especially when I feel like I'm being made fun of. Like I said, I tend to overreact. And I don't think of you as a trophy. You're an amazingly intelligent and beautiful woman I enjoy spending time with. I want to get to know you better."

Sara dropped her head, giving it a brief shake before walking around the breakfast bar to head into the kitchen. She had to give Max credit: he was direct. Unlike Grissom. How did she end up with two men interested in her who could be so different?

One was a socially introverted, overly jealous man who could take her breath away with a smile, but it took a literal crowbar to pry the smallest piece of information from him. It was more than privacy; he built walls to keep people out. Would she ever really be able to get him to lower those walls?

The other was a socially graceful, friendly man who could lift her spirits within minutes with his wit and charm. He was open and direct, never disguising his motives or intentions. But he was overly defensive and competitive, still battling demons from a rough childhood.

This was too confusing. After months of wanting any attention, she had more than she could deal with.

"Do you like green tea? It's all I have. I can make some iced tea," she offered after a moment.

"That sounds great. If you haven't eaten yet, I'll order us some carryout. I need to ask some questions so I can set up the most exhaustive searches."

"Sure," she said noncommittally as she set the kettle on the stove and moved to the cabinets to get the tea.

"You're still angry, aren't you?"

"Yeah."

"Do we need to talk this out, or do I need to give you some space?"

"We can talk later," she said, a hint of a smile forming. Max did have his good side.

"Whenever you're ready, Sara."

* * *

"Catherine, Warrick, there's a DB in Henderson. Nick, you get the victim's trailer," Grissom said, handing out papers as he entered the room. The others stole quick glances at Sara, who sat reading a journal, wondering what he had in store for her.

"Sara, did Dr. Brandenburg find anything useful?" he asked, being careful to keep any sign of emotion from his voice.

"Not yet. He asked some questions to set the parameters for the searches. It'll take a while to set up the program and get the results."

"Okay, quick run down on what we have. Catherine?"

"QD confirmed the writing is the same as at the other scenes. It's our guy. The brush is old. The company that made it went out of business four years ago. No wonder we couldn't find any leads on it."

"I lifted shoe prints off of the catwalk. Same size as what we found on the crates at the warehouse, but they were from tennis shoes this time," Warrick added.

"Greg's still running the DNA from the victim and from the brush," Sara added. "There's definitely some epithelials from the defensive wounds, and multiple DNA from the brush. He'll page us as soon as he knows more."

"We found some smudges on the movie screen. The killer was wearing some sort of glove. Jacqui thinks it was a heavy work glove. Something with some texture. She also lifted several prints from the brush. High-probability match to the partials we got off of the dumpster," Nick added.

"Why did he leave the brush behind?" Catherine asked aloud.

"He was running out of time," Grissom suggested. "This victim fought back. He took too long to die. If the killer dropped the brush, he wouldn't have had time to find it under the screen before the audience arrived."

"But he had some sort of big blade with him. Why didn't he kill the guy outright instead of fighting with him?"

"Blood, Nick. It's all about the blood. If he had cut the victim while he was alive with that much warfarin in his system, he would have bled all over the place. There wouldn't have been much left for him to drain. As it was, the victim lost a lot of blood from the punch to his nose," Grissom explained. "Anything else?"

"Brass said several witnesses reported that a gray or white van was parked by the road on the far side of the drive-in. They said it pulled out right about the time the concession workers started arriving. We went looking for tracks, but we couldn't find anything," Warrick added.

"All right. Sara, I need you finish processing the evidence from the scene. Go over the victim's effects. When you get done that, you can help me try to find a link between the victims."

* * *

Grissom stared at the board in front of him, trying to see what thread tied their victims together. The far left column, labeled X, was for their unknown first victim. The XY pair in his DNA told them he was male, and that's all they knew about him.

The far right column held the information on the latest victim. Stevie Wilson, a week shy of turning 21, Caucasian. Unlike Wallace and Smith, he was a native of Las Vegas. Wallace originally came from Oklahoma and Smith from Arkansas.

They worked in different fields, lived in different parts of the county, and had no obvious link between them. So far, the only connections they'd been able to make were nebulous.

All four were male. Of the three known victims, none had a college degree, but Smith was a part-time student at Western Nevada. None of the three were married, but Wallace had been widowed. As far as they knew, none of the men had children.

Unmarried men without children or a college degree made for a large population. Were any of those facts a criterion in their selection or did they have some commonality they hadn't found yet?

"Any luck?" Sara asked as she walked to stand beside him.

"Not a lot. We can rule out age, race, height, weight, eye and hair color, religion and employment as part of the signature."

"Brass talked to the last victim's parents. He was in pretty poor financial shape. No way he could have afforded meals from a restaurant. They said he was taking food from the drive-in to eat."

"Nick brought in samples from the concession stand. They don't actually make any food there. It's all prepackaged stuff that could be microwaved."

"Yum," Sara said with a teasing smile.

"Find anything from the effects?"

"Guy was a slob. His undershirt was pretty stained up. I took samples. The mass spec was acting up. Greg has a backlog to run through it."

"He mentioned that fact earlier. What do you want for breakfast?"

"I usually have a bowl of cereal when I'm home," Sara said, smiling at the sudden change in conversation.

Grissom turned to look over his glasses at her. "I didn't invite you to my home to eat out of a box. Pancakes all right?"

"That'll be fine, Grissom. You don't have to go to any trouble."

"Dammit," he muttered when his pager went off. "Bugs. I've got to go."

"Don't worry about it," she said with a laugh. "We can catch breakfast tomorrow, or maybe lunch."

"Okay," he said, giving her a slight smile before leaving. Dinner still wasn't an option; she must be meeting Brandenburg again.

* * *

"Warfarin!"

Everyone looked up from their coffee as they waited for the next night shift to begin to find an excited Greg leaning against the doorframe.

"Sara, those stains you found on the guy's shirt? I came in early to catch up on running my samples. One of the stains contained beer and warfarin," the lab tech said excitedly.

"Good job," Grissom said. "Warrick, Sara, Nick. We'll take the theater. Bring in everything – all the empty cups, bottles, cans, anything that could have held beer. Catherine, you get the guy's trailer and truck. Same deal, including all his glasses or mugs."

As the others stood up to get ready, Grissom noticed Sara's grimace when she moved slowly out of her chair.

"Are you okay?" he asked softly, laying a restraining hand on her arm.

"Little sore," she said with a yawn. "And a little sleepy. Didn't get much rest. Spent all day with Max."

"Oh," he said evenly.

"We were working on the case, Grissom. The program spat out some weird relationships."

"Such as?" he asked, giving her a contrite smile.

"The last digit of the prefix on all the victims' phone numbers are odd numbers. The sum of the digits of the street addresses is even."

"Random noise," he said.

"Basically," she said.

"Are you sure you're okay? You can go home if you're not feeling well," he said kindly. She'd been tired when he visited her apartment the day before. "Are you coming down with something?"

"Flu maybe. I'll be fine," she insisted, touched by his concern. Sara gave him a smile before turning to find a rapidly dispersing gaggle of spectators who had been watching them from the hallway.

"What was that all about?" Grissom asked.

"Probably wanted to see if I was going to kill you, or if you were still in rut."

"Oh, God," he said in a mortified whisper.

"We better grab some coveralls if we're going to be playing in the garbage," she said, her eyes twinkling in amusement.

"Right," he said, hoping he wasn't blushing as he walked down the hallway.

* * *

"Damn."

Warrick looked up when he heard the soft whisper. Sara was bent over, her hands resting on her legs just above the knees.

"You don't look good, girl. You okay?"

"Flu," she admitted reluctantly. "I ache all over. My stomach is flipping. I think I've got a bit of a fever."

"Why don't you go home?"

"And let you have all the fun?" she joked, emptying another sack of bottles into the center of the garage floor. Since bringing in the garbage from the theater, they'd spent the better part of a double-shift testing it all for traces of warfarin. Sitting gingerly down beside the pile, she began the process of labeling and swabbing each of the containers.

"I'm going to grab a soda. Be back in a few," Warrick said. "Want me to bring you something back?"

"Nah. Thanks. I'm fine."

* * *

"Rick!"

Hearing his name shouted out, Warrick stopped to see a detective rapidly approaching him, clearly upset.

"Hey, Brass."

"You seen Sara?"

"She's in the garage. What's…"

"Thanks," he said brusquely, moving down the hallway at a near-run, prompting Warrick to follow in confusion.

"Oh, sweet Jesus," Brass whispered when he looked in the window, seeing Sara surrounded by the pieces of metal and glass from the scene. "Find Grissom. Now!" he ordered his companion.

"Hey, Sara," he called softly, hoping not to startle her.

"What's up, Brass?"

"I need for you to come here."

"Let me just finish this," she said, reaching for a broken bottle.

"No! Come on, doll. Humor an old man and come here. Be careful."

"Jim, what's going on?" Grissom asked quizzically as he and Warrick came up behind the police captain.

"Yeah," Sara added as she exited the garage.

"Warrick, you go ahead and finish that. I need to ask Sara some questions," he said, laying an arm gingerly around Sara's shoulders and leading her down the hall. Grissom nodded to Warrick before walking over to her other side.

"How are you feeling?"

"I've got the flu. Why?"

"You haven't bumped your head or anything?"

"No. What's going on?" Sara demanded, coming to a full stop when she saw he was leading her to the exit.

"When was the last time you saw Max?"

"Yesterday. We were working on the case."

"Where were you?" he demanded.

"My apartment to start with. Then we went to his house later to pick up some faxes," she said succinctly, seeing this wasn't a casual conversation.

"Did you eat anything?"

"Yeah. We had lunch and dinner together. Both carryout. What's going on?"

"Jim," Grissom said lowly, his impatience clear.

"I just had a phone call from Max's secretary. He had a doctor's appointment first thing this morning. His knee's been really bothering him. The doctor decided to put in a drain to get rid of the excess fluid. They gave him a local to numb the leg. After they put in the drain, they left him there for a while," he said, giving Sara a worried look.

"When the nurse came to check on him, she thought he had fallen asleep. Then she saw the blood. The incision was gushing. He almost bled to death before they got him to the hospital. He's in ICU now," Brass said, gently moving her towards the exit.

"Oh, God," she whispered, turning to see Grissom staring at her intently.

"The hospital called his secretary to see if he took a blood thinner. His blood won't clot. She knew about this case, and she called me. It looks like warfarin poisoning," Brass said softly. "We need to get you to the hospital, Sara."

_TBC_


	9. Ch 9

**Cardinality  
****Summary:** A serial killer is stalking the citizens of Las Vegas. Started out as a case file but the G/S aspect demanded equal representation. This is the edited version for this site. The original version can be found at my web site.  
**Rating:** R for subject matter  
**A/N**: No real spoilers. Many thanks to Burked for teaching me how to be a serial killer, among many other things.  
**Disclaimer**: Obviously, I don't own anything related to CSI. If I did, certain characters would be getting more screen time – together!

* * *

"_I cannot help it; in spite of myself, infinity torments me."_ – Alfred de Musset

**Chapter 9**

Sara squinted as the harsh desert sunlight assailed her eyes, wishing her companions would let her go back and grab her sunglasses, along with a shower and change of clothes. After spending hours sifting through trash, she smelled like she lived in a dumpster. Instead, the two men flanked her protectively, actively scanning the parking lot for potential dangers.

This was insane. She was fine. No one had tried to kill her. It was a bug, probably the flu. She'd been working too many hours without a break since this case started. It got to her, that's all.

Really.

"Do you have a blanket?" Grissom asked tersely as they approached the vehicle.

"In the trunk," Brass replied quizzically, but veering off to retrieve it without waiting for an explanation.

"Grissom, it has to be in the nineties out here, and I already have a fever," Sara sighed. His penetrating stare stopped her eye roll cold. He really was worried. This was crazy.

"Get in the middle," he directed, opening the rear door of the car. Grissom carefully shielded Sara's head with his hand as she ducked to enter the car. Once she slid to the center of the seat, he took the blanket and rolled it up. Tucking it around her abdomen, he fastened the seatbelt loosely over top of the blanket before taking a seat beside her.

"Whatever you do, Jim, don't make any sudden stops," he said pointedly.

"Right," Brass said, as the implications of Grissom's actions became clear. If Sara had been poisoned with warfarin, her blood vessels would be fragile. The impact of hitting the seat belt would cause internal bleeding; she could easily die before they reached the hospital. Turning on his lights, the police captain cautiously pulled into traffic.

Sara turned to watch Grissom, and then looked back up at Brass. Both men were fighting to keep their agitation subdued, and neither was doing a good job of it.

"Guys, I've got the flu. That's it. I've been feeling rundown the last couple of days. Really," she insisted, closing her eyes when a wave of nausea gripped her. They flew back open when she felt Grissom's hand on her forehead.

"You have a fever."

"I told you. Flu. Stomach aches," she said through clinched teeth.

"Okay," he said kindly, dropping his hand to rest lightly on her shoulder.

None of the car's occupants added that gastric disturbances and fever were a common symptom of poisonings in general, as the body reacted to the toxins. With warfarin, bleeding in the digestive tract also prompted nausea and cramping. Likewise, damaged blood vessels in the joints would start to leak from movement, causing pain.

"Okay," Grissom said softly, giving her a kind smile. "But you and Max shared several meals recently. We need to rule that out as the source of the warfarin. A simple blood test will give us the answer."

"Sara, where did the two of you eat the past couple of days?"

Sara closed her eyes and rested her head against the back of the seat, trying to recall all they had shared over the last few days. She felt fine, other than a bug, but they needed to find the source of the poisoning. Ruling out potential sites was equally useful as identifying sources.

"For dinner last night, we got carryout from a Vietnamese restaurant on the way to Max's house. It's on Forkum Avenue, near the library. He got a beef dish. We split some vegetable and noodle dishes. I don't even know the names; he likes their food and placed the order. Max had some cake at the house. I don't know what bakery it came from. We had soda to drink."

"Good. You both ate the same dishes?"

"Except for the beef, yeah."

"What about lunch?" Grissom asked, jotting down notes quickly.

"Sandwiches from the deli. Jack's Place, it's down the street from my apartment complex. I had the egg salad on wheat. Max had two meat sandwiches. Pastrami on rye, I think. They all came with chips and a pickle. I made iced tea for us to drink, and I had some cookies at the house."

"Any other recent meals?"

"The day before that. We had pizzas and salads from Toscani's at the Checkerwood Shopping Center. Same deal, I made tea and we had cookies, too."

"Do you remember anything odd about the food? The delivery?" Brass inquired.

"No, not really. Max called the order into the Vietnamese place and ran in to pick it up. He also paid the guy from the deli. I got the pizza order. I've seen that delivery guy before," she said, trying to recall any other details that could help in the investigation.

"Have you noticed anyone unusual around your apartment complex, someone in the lab parking lot?"

"No," she said after taking a moment to mentally review the last few days. This was unreal. "Guys, I'm fine. You're making me nervous," she joked. "I'm not going to bleed out in your backseat."

"I hope not. I just had it detailed," Brass deadpanned from the front, realizing they could all use a break in the tension.

"And blood stains, too. You'd never get it out," Grissom added lightly, brushing his fingers gingerly along her shoulder.

She returned the favor with a smile, grateful her colleagues were trying to make her feel better. "I left my wallet in my locker. There should be enough cash in it to pay for another detail, Brass."

"I'll hold you to that," he said, looking in the mirror. "So don't go bleeding out on me."

"Don't intend to."

"Good. The hospital's just ahead," the captain said. "Hope you're wearing clean underwear."

"I was," she said.

"Ugh. I told you I just had the car detailed," he whined.

"Give me a break, Brass. I've been working in trash for hours. I don't think there's any part of me that's clean."

"Now that's a loaded statement if I ever heard one," he said, pulling into the emergency entrance. "Let's go."

The two men flanked Sara, shielding her from any accidental bumps or bruises. "Watch it," Grissom yelled when an orderly came around a corner quickly pushing a cart of equipment, prompting heads to turn in their direction.

"Discretion. Gotta love it," she smirked. "Not like they didn't smell me coming a mile away."

"You're probably the best-dressed derelict they've had in here in ages," Grissom quipped, giving her another smile as he took in her stained and smelly coveralls.

"You really know how to charm a girl."

"I'm trying," he whispered into her ear, causing her to give him a startled look.

Grissom stayed by her side as they explained the situation to the attending physician. Despite the seriousness of the situation, Sara couldn't keep a grin from forming as she took in the scene.

Grissom was still in his vest and armed; scowling dangerously at anyone who came near with dangerous objects, like pencils. Brass's badge was in plain site, and she looked like she tried to escape from jail out the sewer pipe.

They commandeered a cot in the emergency room, drawing the curtain for privacy. A quick examination and medical history followed and blood was drawn, after the nurse wrinkled her nose and used an excessive amount of alcohol to clean the inside of Sara's arm.

"Where are you going, Brass? You're my ride out of this joint," she said, sliding up to sit cross-legged at the head of the cot, pressing on the gauze dressing.

"I'm going to see if I can get some more information about Max's condition."

"Thanks."

"I won't be long."

"Good, 'cause I'll be ready to leave as soon as that blood test is done."

"Sure thing," he said encouragingly, giving Grissom a nod before heading to out. Seeing the attending physician, Brass altered his course to corner the man.

"How long until we find out if she's been exposed to warfarin?"

"The prothrombin time test is pretty quick. It will show if her blood is clotting properly. If it's way off, we can assume she's been exposed to an anti-coagulant. We won't know for sure if it's warfarin until the full workup is done. Even with a rush, that could take a few hours, depending on how backed up the lab is."

"Thanks," Brass said, moving off to the elevator.

* * *

"Owww."

Grissom snapped his head up, and launched himself from the stool at the foot of the bed when he heard her whisper.

"What's wrong?" he asked, taking a seat by her side.

"Just ache," she said unconvincingly, giving him an embarrassed smile. She hadn't meant for him to hear that. He was going to make too big of a deal out of it.

"Where?"

"It be quicker to list where I don't ache," she quipped, but the joke was ruined by a grimace. "Dammit."

"Sara?"

"My elbow that time," she said, nodding towards her left arm. It was bent, the left hand holding the dressing on her right arm in place.

Grissom leaned over the bed to get a better look. His tongue made a brief appearance from his pursed lips as he examined a stain on her sleeve.

"Did you hit something?" he asked cautiously.

"Maybe. If I did, I don't remember it."

"Here," he said sliding closer to gingerly roll up the coverall sleeve.

"I guess I did. That doesn't look good," Sara said, twisting around to bring her elbow into a better view. A large, ugly bruise had already formed and was swelling. If she had bumped into something, it hadn't been hard enough to notice, let alone account for such a serious injury.

Grissom gently lifted her arm to get a better view, but despite his precautions, she still had to stifle a grunt of pain. Looking up apologetically, he was taken back by the look of fear in her eyes.

"Do you have any other bruises? Did you hit your head? Think, Sara. Even if it was just a little blow."

She tilted her head in confusion. A definite note of fear had been in his voice. This couldn't be good. Catching his gaze, she tried to give him a reassuring smile, but doubted if she succeeded.

When she didn't answer, he slid up closer, placing a hand on either side of her head. Tenderly, he ran his fingers over her scalp, trying to locate any hematomas. She closed her eyes at the touch; if it weren't for his concern, the gesture would be intimate.

A feeling of guilt overcame Sara. How could she be thinking about something like that when she didn't know if her friend would live?

"No. I'd have a hell of headache if I did," Sara said, gently pulling away from him.

"You're going to be okay, honey," he said softly, knowing as well as she did that she didn't have the flu.

"I thought I hallucinated that," she said, shock replacing her fear.

"What?" Grissom asked, looking up in confusion.

"You called me 'honey' after the lab explosion. I thought I dreamt that," she said in wonderment.

"Is it really that hard to believe I'd say something like that?" he asked after a moment's hesitation, keeping his attention focused on her arm.

"After your reaction later, yeah."

Grissom didn't respond, but got off the cot to call for nurse. Pointing out Sara's injury, he asked for an ice pack and told the nurse to make sure the doctor knew about it. He remained by the curtain rubbing his temples until the nurse returned, avoiding Sara's eyes as he walked over to hold the ice against her elbow.

"I was on my way to the doctor's office when you asked about dinner," he said suddenly, after several quiet moments had past. Looking up, he saw her puzzled expression. "I was losing my hearing. It had gotten progressively worse over the past year. If the surgery didn't work, it would have left me completely deaf."

Sara blinked in surprise, trying to read his expression, but he darted his eyes back to the ice pack.

"That, well, that explains a lot," she said, mentally re-evaluating his behavior during that time frame. While it offered an insight into his behavior up to that point, it didn't explain his behavior since the operation. "I'm guessing everything went okay?"

He gave her a brief nod, shifting so he could hold the ice pack more comfortably, causing her to grin briefly. While she was glad he had decided to open up to her, she hoped it wouldn't take another trip to the emergency room to do so again.

"I thought I was the one who was supposed to be making death bed confessions."

Her tone had been joking, but the statement was enough to cause him jerk his head up. Matching her gaze, he allowed a brief smile to form, before returning his attention to her elbow.

"You keep canceling our date. We never had a chance to talk," he said lightly before wincing.

How could he have mentioned dating when they didn't know if Brandenburg was even alive or going to recover? They didn't even know the extent of Sara's poisoning.

"I shouldn't have brought that up."

"This is awkward," Sara said.

"I'm sorry," he offered, giving her a contrite look.

"No," she said, smiling sweetly to show him he'd committed no foul. "I mean this. You trying to hold an ice pack on my arm while I try to hold a bandage."

Shifting position, Sara winced as she straightened out her left arm to remove the gauze dressing from where the nurse had drawn blood. She stared at the wound as a steady trickle of blood ran down her arm, feeling her heart start beating faster. How could it still be bleeding?

It was Grissom's soft swearing that caused her to move.

"I didn't leave the gauze on long enough, I guess," she said shakily, recovering the wound and bending her right arm up to help apply pressure to the bandage.

Looking up, she drew a ragged breath when she saw the depth of emotion in Grissom's eyes.

"Hey," she said softly. "It's okay. I'll be fine."

"Right," he offered reassuringly.

"Just need to put some more pressure on it, that's all."

"You're right."

"It's nothing serious. They never have trouble getting blood from me," she said, suddenly curling up as a muscle cramp gripped her stomach. "Dammit."

Grissom licked his lips nervously. Logically, he knew there was nothing he could do to help relieve her pain, but that fact didn't prevent him from feeling frustrated. Reaching up, he gently brushed a stray lock of hair back over her ear, causing her to give him a smile.

"Moving," she said, before leaning back against the pillows. Grissom followed along with the ice pack, being careful to not apply any excessive pressure against her elbow.

"Do you want something to drink?" he asked.

"Please don't mention anything involving food or drink," she mock-begged, trying to maintain her calm. There was no way she was going to fall apart in front of him. He was worried enough already.

"Anything you'd like to talk about?" he asked.

"Weather?" she joked, giving him a grin. He picked a great time to decide to be communicative. Realizing he was worried, but trying to keep her spirits up, Sara was touched by his level of concern.

"In Las Vegas? It's hot and dry right now. It'll be cooler and dry tonight. Repeat for an extended time frame," he quipped back, following her lead in keeping the conversation light.

"That didn't kill much time," she said. They settled in small talk about the office for several minutes, each trying to lift the other's mood.

"Oh, shit," Sara said when she checked the gauze again. Not only was the blood flowing freely down her arm, the bandage had completely soaked through. Her mind insisted on trying to calculate how long it would take before she lost enough blood to enter shock.

Grissom got up from the bed to grab a handful of tissues from the shelf behind the cot. Using one, he took the blood-soaked cotton and set it aside. Folding a bunch of tissues together, he offered her the makeshift bandage, which she pressed against the wound. Taking out an evidence container from one of his pockets, he bagged the gauze and discreetly put it away.

Taking the box of tissues, he sat beside her on the bed, and began wiping the blood from her forearm gently, being careful not to press too hard.

"You know, I'm really going to be pissed if I survived Brass's driving only to bleed to death from a pinprick," she muttered angrily. Of all the ways to go, being poisoned by a serial killer was one she'd never given much thought to.

"Hey, he only scared those old ladies. Jim never actually hit any of them," he deadpanned. Grissom knew the importance of keeping Sara calm, but right now she seemed more collected than he felt.

"You're going to be fine," he offered, as much for himself as for her.

"Yeah, it's easy to treat. They'll give me some vitamin K, and I'll be home in no time."

"In a few days, you'll be as good as new," he added, looking around when the curtain was drawn back to reveal Brass and several medical personnel.

"Ms. Sidle, I'm Dr. Pavel. It looks like you're going to be our guest for a little while."

"Warfarin?" she asked, exchanging an intense stare with Grissom.

"An anti-coagulant, yes. We won't know which one until all the blood work is done. We need to run a few tests, then we'll get you settled into your room," he explained, after examining her elbow thoroughly and jotting down notes.

Grissom was forced to move away from her as one nurse began cleaning her hands with alcohol swabs while another started bandaging her arm. Sara smiled at him, trying to keep the grimace of pain hidden as another wave of pain wracked her body.

"Nurse Crane is going to hook up some IVs. We're going to start the vitamin K treatment for warfarin poisoning. It won't hurt you if it turns out you were exposed to another anti-coagulant. Gentlemen, you'll need to wait outside now," Pavel told them.

"Max is still in ICU, Sara. They don't know, yet."

"Thanks, Brass. Grissom? Call my parents. They'll freak if they hear about this. Tell them I'll talk to them once I'm settled."

"Of course. We've got to go now, but I'll be back later."

"Thanks," she said, ignoring the disgusted look on the nurse's face when she began preparing Sara's hand for the IV.

* * *

"The killer isn't finished with them. I want police protection…"

"Already taken care of, Gil, for both of them. What are the odds the killer just happened to pick our consultant?"

"Not good, but he does share characteristics with the other victims. Male, single, no children."

"That's too much of a stretch," Brass exclaimed as they entered his car.

"Probably. But the question is how did the killer know to target Max?"

"Or Sara? We don't know which of them was the intended target, or if they both were."

Grissom nodded his head. They didn't know. That a serial killer may have targeted Sara was deeply unsettling. They knew they were in a dangerous line of work, but the actual versus theoretical knowledge was disturbing.

Letting out a sigh, he ran his hands through his hair as he tried to process this newest twist to their case. Brass was already on the phone, giving the sheriff an update and calling in the entire night shift.

"If the killer returned to that last scene, he had to have noticed Max," Brass ventured. "He does stand out."

"He was insulted."

"What?" Brass asked, giving his friend an odd look.

"Remember the drive-in? We were talking to Max about the writing. He said the killer wasn't a good mathematician," Grissom said urgently.

"If he overheard that ..."

"It would enrage a signature killer to hear their work dismissed. He'd break his pattern to go after anyone that belittled him."

"And we called Max by name. The killer would know who he was," the detective added with a mild curse. "So was poisoning Sara an accident?"

"I don't know. If the poison was in a dish they shared, it could have been unintentional. If the killer thinks the lab is dismissing his work, he could go after anyone," Grissom said as Brass. "We're not taking any chances."

* * *

The conference room was packed with the full staff of the Las Vegas Crime Lab. People were talking animatedly and taking bets on the reason for the impromptu meeting. A few heads turned as the sheriff, followed by Grissom and Brass, finally arrived.

"Hey," Nick called out as Grissom grabbed his burrito as he passed and threw it away.

"People!" Grissom bellowed, shocking everyone into silence. "Effective immediately, no one is eat or drink any food you didn't prepare yourself. Nothing from carryout, from restaurants, no free coffee at the donut shop. Is that clear?"

His unexpected directive caught everyone by surprise, and triggered a cacophony of sound as people started asking questions. Brass's sharp whistle silenced the crowd again.

"Dr. Brandenburg, a consultant who has been helping us with our signature killer, and Sara are both at University Medical Center with warfarin poisoning," Grissom said, forcing himself to keep his voice level, and avoiding the sympathetic looks directed his way.

"How are they?" Robbins called out, the first to regain his voice. The others turned expectantly to Grissom.

"Brandenburg's in ICU in critical condition. He had outpatient surgery this morning, and the bleeding wouldn't stop," he said. "I really don't know about Sara. She had some aches, stomach problems and some bad bruising. They were going to run some tests and were starting IV treatment."

"Did they give you any indication how bad it is?" the coroner asked in an odd tone of voice.

"I overheard a nurse say Sara's INR was twenty three," Brass added, sounding out the acronym carefully.

"You're sure about that?" he asked. While rare, intravenous treatment for warfarin poisoning could be fatal; it was only done in severe cases.

"Al?" Grissom asked.

The coroner shrugged as he became the focus of attention. People weren't going to react well to his response, but they needed to know the truth.

"INR measures how well blood clots. The normal value is point nine to one point one. Anything above four is considered at high risk for developing spontaneous bleeding," he said gravely. "Anything above twenty is life-threatening, but people have survived with much high readings than twenty three."

He waited until his audience had a moment to adjust to his news. Fixing Grissom with a steady look, he continued.

"Right now, the main risk is internal bleeding, especially intracranial hemorrhaging. Did Sara seem disoriented or confused?"

"No," Brass said quickly. "She was focused and joking around."

"That's great. You mentioned bruising?"

"Her elbow. The doctor seemed worried about it," Grissom said.

"Compartmentalization could be a concern. The hematoma causes swelling, which presses on the nerves where they pass along the bones in the elbow. If it's bad enough, they'll have to drain it surgically to prevent permanent damage."

"How long until we know if Sara, until she's out?" Catherine asked, altering her original question at the last moment.

"They'll put her on a vitamin K replacement therapy. If she's losing a lot of blood, they'll start a transfusion as well. She'll be in the hospital until her INR values are back in a safe range. That can take a couple days, depending on her metabolism," Robbins said.

"Which one was the killer after?" Nick asked.

"We don't know if he was after one or both of them. We think the killer was at the last scene. Max was there," Brass said.

"We'll pull up all the photos and news footage from the scenes," Archie said, nodding towards the other A/V techs.

"You bring us anything that can be printed, and we'll print it," Jacqui added, as others started voicing their support as well.

"Everyone stay alert. Wear your vests at every scene. Be on the look out for any strangers hanging around parking lots. And don't eat any food you didn't prepare yourself," the sheriff repeated.

Grissom waved his team over to a far corner of the room as the rest of the staff dispersed. "The killer is getting sloppy. This could be our chance to find him. He probably slipped them the poison at the same time. That limits the possibilities.

"Sara and Max shared several meals over the last couple days. Nick, Warrick, you grab Max's house. Bring in all the food and drinks in the house, in the trash. Catherine, we're checking Sara's apartment," Grissom stated, pulling out the container with the blood-soaked gauze and handing it to Greg. "Run the mass spec on that for warfarin, and get it to Tox for a full screen."

"She'll be fine, Gil," Catherine said as they stopped by the locker room so she could don her vest. "How about you?"

"I'm fine, Catherine," he said with more determination than she could ever recall hearing from him before. "Let's nail the bastard."

_TBC_


	10. Ch 10

**Cardinality  
****Summary:** A serial killer is stalking the citizens of Las Vegas. Started out as a case file but the G/S aspect demanded equal representation. This is the edited version for this site. The complete version can be found at my web site.  
**Rating:** R for subject matter  
**A/N**: No real spoilers. Many thanks to Burked for teaching me how to be a serial killer, among many other things.  
**Disclaimer**: Obviously, I don't own anything related to CSI. If I did, certain characters would be getting more screen time – together!

* * *

"_I cannot help it; in spite of myself, infinity torments me."_ – Alfred de Musset

**Chapter 10**

"Is Brass getting the warrant?" Catherine asked impatiently as they walked down the hallway towards Sara's apartment. The area hadn't been sealed off, there were no uniformed officers on the scene. Time was wasting; the sooner they could process her place, the better their odds of catching the killer.

"We don't need one," Grissom said shortly, stopping in front of the door and staring at it intently.

"I know she's not a suspect, but how do you plan to get inside? It's not likely the apartment manager is going to just let us walk in without a warrant," Catherine replied softly, casting him a concerned look.

"Not a problem," he said, pulling a key chain from his pocket as he cocked his head in concentration.

Grissom kept his attention focused on Sara's door, forcing himself to remain collected. He gripped the key chain painfully as he recalled the blood rolling down her arm. It had been a pinprick – how could it have bled so much? What about internal bleeding?

Closing his eyes briefly, he fought down the rising panic. They had gotten her to the hospital safely. She was already being treated. There was nothing more he could do to help her medically. The doctors would see to that.

He had to stay calm; Sara's life could still depend on it. The killer was out there. She wouldn't be safe even if … when she survived the poisoning. Not until the bastard that did this to her was gone.

Right now, his responsibility was to catch whoever had done this to her. To do that, he had to stay focused and do his job. He could do that; he could do the job. After all, it's all he had done for most of his life.

It was all he had ever let be part of his life.

Flexing his hand around the key chain, he examined the floor in front on her apartment, then turned his attention to the doorframe. Treat this like any other case. Grissom considered the fact that his effort was probably wasted on Catherine; she had known him too well and for too long to fall for his forced indifference.

"Since when have you had a key to Sara's apartment?" Catherine asked Grissom incredulously.

"Since right before we left the lab," he replied tersely, turning his head to the right to look down the hallway.

"You stole her keys?"

"Borrowed."

"I damn well hope so. You're telling her if you didn't."

"This counts as exigent circumstances."

The catch in his voice had barely been noticeable, but it was enough to worry Catherine. Exigent circumstances allowed them to bypass certain regulations, but only if someone's life was in imminent danger. "She'll be fine, Gil," she offered reassuringly.

Grissom bit back his response. She couldn't know if Sara would recover. There were still too many things that could go wrong.

Instead, he walked a few steps away, turning his head to take in the rest of the hallway. After a moment, he returned and knelt down in front of the door, examining the knob closely. Reaching over, he opened his kit and pulled out a pair of gloves.

"What did you find?"

"Nothing, yet."

"Gil?"

"The killer followed a timetable," he said, letting out a long breath. "He waited approximately 30 hours after he poisoned the victims to come back and kill them."

"You think the killer came back for Sara?" Catherine asked, donning her own gloves as Grissom began dusting the knob.

"I don't know. If he followed Max, he would have know he had gone to the doctor's office and then the hospital. That's too open, too dangerous. He couldn't have gotten to him there. The killer may have decided to go after Sara at that point. But he wouldn't have known she was working a double-shift."

"Or he was after Sara the entire time," she said, giving her friend a pointed look. "Sorry, but we have to consider that possibility."

"I know," he sighed, carefully lifting prints from the front, sides and back of the knob. Once he was done, he opened the door. "You start in the kitchen. Food, drinks, condiments, trash."

After Catherine went inside, he closed the door again, trying to think like the killer. Standing up, he turned his attention back to the hallway. No one had noticed their presence yet.

All the victims had been killed in a location where it was unlikely they'd be discovered. Wallace never worked on weekends, and stayed home the entire time. Smith was the only guard at the warehouse complex. Wilson came in hours before the other staff at the drive-in.

Brandenburg had a full-time secretary who screened all his visitors. Sara slept during the day, when most of the other apartment complex residents would be at school or work. She would have been the logical choice Grissom admitted to himself.

She's in there alone. She didn't open the door after he knocked. Was she asleep? Had she already started to bleed out? Can I force the door? Can I pick the lock? Try looking in the peephole.

Grissom held his gloved hands up on either side of the peephole, but not touching the wood. Breaking out his Red Creeper, he started lightly dusting the vertical surface of the door. Smudges from what were probably knuckles showed on several locations. Working downward, he was rewarded with handprints at a few locations.

After carefully lifting all of the prints, he meticulously labeled everything. The bastard wasn't going to get away because of a sloppy work. Heading inside, he saw Catherine putting a few containers into a brown paper sack on the counter.

"Sara wasn't kidding about not liking to cook," she said, pointing to a few bags. "There's not much selection of anything in the place. It's all here."

A feeling of sadness came over Grissom as he checked the sparse supplies in one of the bags. It seemed so meager. Tea, coffee, sugar, bread, peanut butter, cereal. She couldn't have had people over on a regular basis. How lonely was she?

"Make sure everything is labeled properly," Grissom said suddenly, turning to check out the rest of the small apartment. A quick scan of the living area showed there weren't any empty carryout containers in there. Not surprising; Sara was too neat. "And don't forget the trash."

"Already done."

Grissom turned his attention to the shelves, freezing as the beam of his flashlight hit the walls. Blood-red walls. That could have been Sara's blood, describing some perverted mathematical relationship.

Giving his head a shake, he walked towards the bathroom. The trashcan in there held little – an empty tube of toothpaste, a few tissues, and some cotton swabs. Making his way into her bedroom, Grissom stopped as he swung his light across the area.

Despite all her neatness, Sara's bedroom was a surprise. The bed was rumpled, the pillows splayed haphazardly across it. A pile of laundry sat in the corner, waiting to be done. A lone sock rested on the closet door handle for some reason.

It reminded him of a teenager's room – a place where they could express their true selves. For all her outward order, she kept her bedroom disorganized, relaxed. The thought of Sara sprawled on the bed, pulling the covers over her head, wanting to sleep a few more minutes made him smile.

The thought of her smile directed at him made his heart race.

He drew a deep breath as the realization hit him - this was Sara's apartment. This was her home. He was here to process it. She should have been safe here, her refuge from all the nightmares they dealt with in their job. Instead, it may have been the site where she was poisoned.

His hand shook as he traced a gloved finger down the sheets, realizing it was the only time he'd ever have a chance to touch them. Why had he rejected her? This never should have happened to her. He liked to cook; she wouldn't have been exposed to poisoned food.

This was all his fault.

He'd been so damned afraid to let her in, and now she was in the hospital. She could die. A light blow to the head and her brain would be destroyed before the doctors had a chance to react. He'd never have the chance to tell her, to explain, to apologize.

Sara was too young to die. She deserved so much more. What had she experienced? He'd held her back; he never would commit to her, but he never let her free. He'd hurt her so many times, but it seemed so mild compared to the pain he'd felt internally.

Never again. If she only got better, he'd see to it that she had the chance to be happy.

No matter what it took.

No matter who it took.

"Don't even think of breaking out the ALS," Catherine said hotly as she entered the room. The jerk was checking her sheets? Of all the times for his damn jealousy to make an appearance.

"I don't care if, if she's involved," he croaked, causing her to start. When he turned around, the intensity of his gaze overwhelmed her.

"As long as she lives, Catherine, I don't give a damn about anything else! I don't care if she hates me, or if she never speaks to me again, just so long as she lives."

"Hey, come on, Gil. She's going to be okay. Warfarin poisoning is treatable. Come on," she said, leading him out of the room, and directing him to the couch. She knelt before him, resting a hand reassuringly on his knee. This had to be hell on him. If Sara didn't recover, she doubted Grissom would ever get over it.

"Look, why don't I go grab her some clothes? Those hospital gowns are a bitch. You know that. Sit here. I'll be back in a minute."

Grissom sat morosely on the couch, listening as Catherine rooted through Sara's closet and dresser. A humorless smile formed. He finally figured out what to do about 'this', and it really was too late.

He'd hurt her so many times, and now he nearly let her get killed. There could still be lasting problems from the poisoning. If it hadn't been obvious to Sara before, this had to make it crystal clear. She was better off without him.

Things were going to be different from now on, Grissom resolved. He wanted her to be happy. It was out of his ability to give that to her directly, but he'd no longer stand in her way. And he would make sure she had the safety to pursue that happiness.

"I'm going to start taking the evidence down," he called out, his determination growing.

He had a job to do. It was all he had.

* * *

After arriving back at the lab, Grissom directed Catherine to log the evidence while he checked the various departments for progress. Knowing the A/V techs wouldn't have had time to correlate all the tapes yet, he headed first to DNA.

"Two things," Greg said immediately, jumping off his stool when Grissom walked in. "The DNA results are back on the brush. There were four sets. The first three match the three blood types taken from the writing at the scenes. I've got the fourth in CODIS, but no hits have come up yet. It is from a male."

Grissom nodded. It wasn't surprising. The killer couldn't wield the brush wearing the heavy gloves he'd evidently worn. There had been plenty of opportunity for epithelials to transfer to the handle.

"What else?"

"Definitely warfarin. I ran the mass spec on that blood sample you brought."

Taking the printout, he raised a quizzical eyebrow at the lab tech. While the GS mass spectrometer was faster than a tox screen, it would also show every chemical in her blood. Isolating the warfarin from all the other compounds in a few hours was no small feat.

"I want to help," Greg offered in explanation. "It's Sara."

"How does this concentration compare to the other victims?" Grissom asked, already knowing the answer as he turned his attention to the paper. The other victims had enough to kill them, but their levels were lower than Sara's.

"Much higher," Greg said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Why would the killer up the dosage so much?"

Grissom cocked his head and darted his eyes to the younger man. His concern for Sara was obvious. In the past, he'd considered the lab tech's flirting with her to be a youthful folly. Watching him now, Grissom began to wonder if Greg had been serious in his attentions, only to have them go unrequited.

He could relate. Greg could use a distraction to help him focus.

"Why don't you tell me?"

Greg's eyebrows shot up in surprise. Seeing that Grissom wasn't joking, he quickly reviewed all he could remember about the case, shifting nervously from foot to foot.

"Relax, Greg. I'm not going to grade you."

"There were two victims this time," he sputtered, hating to use the term to describe Sara. "The killer wanted to make sure there was enough poison for both of them."

"If he was going after both of them. Only one may have been the target; the other could have been accidental."

"He didn't know Sara's a vegetarian," Greg offered after a minute. "Probably, anyway. He had to poison everything to make sure whoever was the target got poisoned."

"That would explain how they both got poisoned, but not the concentrations."

Greg closed his eyes, trying to think of any new angles. He opened his eyes when Grissom laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"The last victim fought back. He didn't die quick enough. Maybe the killer wasn't taking any chances this time, and upped the dosage, especially considering how big Max is. Or maybe the killer mistakenly thought warfarin toxicity depends on body mass. Or maybe it was accidental."

"Don't try to guess why the killer does something," Greg sighed, nodding his head.

"'For every problem, there exists a simple and elegant solution that is completely wrong.' There are a lot of possible reasons, Greg. That's the danger of working theories, rather than evidence. You start looking for things that support your theory."

"Right," he said sheepishly.

"Come on," Grissom said, nodding towards the door as he walked out and headed towards the Print Lab.

"Jacqui, we've brought in all the food from Sara's place. Start with the carryout containers. See if you can find any prints. When you're done with that, send samples to Tox to check for warfarin. Greg, the containers are probably waxed, but see if you can get any DNA."

"Right," he said, trying to sound upbeat. The wax used would be petroleum-based, a substance that could destroy DNA evidence. The odds he would find anything useful were slim.

Grissom headed out into the hallway. Tox wouldn't have time to have finished the screen on Sara's blood, but they already knew it was warfarin.

"Dr. Grissom!"

Turning, he found Judy walking up to him quickly, a nervous expression on her face.

"This came for you," she said, handing him a letter.

"Thanks," he said absentmindedly, deciding to talk to Al. He wanted an honest assessment of Sara's condition. Grissom stopped suddenly when he caught the return address: Dr. G-M Brandenburg.

Heading to his office, he closed the door before taking a seat. Opening the envelope, he took out the letter and quickly scanned it. The first part was a simple apology from Brandenburg for his behavior in the Layout Room the other night.

That was enough to make Grissom to purse his lips. It was the end that made him wince.

"However, I refuse to apologize for being concerned about Sara's well-being. To be perfectly frank Dr. Grissom, I think you may be a danger to that.

"Whether you realize it or not, she has sacrificed a great deal on your behalf. Sara gave up everything – her job, her friends and her family – to come work for you. Ask yourself one thing: Have you done anything to warrant that kind of dedication?"

Grissom dropped the letter as he ran his hands over his temples. The last thing he needed was his shortcomings pointed out by that overgrown … He turned around to stare at his office shelf.

Who was he to judge? The thought of apologizing to the mathematician had never crossed his mind. The younger man definitely had better social skills, and he seemed sincere in his concern for Sara. The others all liked him. Brandenburg and Sara were closer in age. Maybe she could be happy with him. She seemed to like the man.

The knock on his door gave him an excuse not to finish the letter. Poking her head in, Catherine held the small gym bag in one hand.

"You better head over to the hospital soon, or you won't have a chance to talk to Sara. Visiting hours are going to be over soon."

"You go," he said distractedly.

"Gil," she said gently, walking in and closing the door behind her. "Trust me. It'll mean more to Sara if you go."

He gave her a brief, disbelieving look "There's too much work that needs to be done."

"Like what? It'll take hours before Tox can get anything back on the samples. Jacqui's busy printing what we brought in. That's going to take time, and the guy's aren't back yet from Max's."

"There has to be a way to connect the victims," he began.

"Go! She doesn't have any family in the area, and you know they're going to restrict her visitors as long as she's under protection. This has to be scary for her, and she's alone. Dammit, Gil, try thinking about her."

"I do all the time," he said softly. Getting up from the desk, he took the bag. "Page me if anything comes in."

* * *

Grissom put on a smile after he was cleared by the police officer guarding her door, wanting to cheer Sara up. Knocking lightly as he pushed opened the door, his smile disappeared as he walked in. Was this the right room?

"Hey, I was wondering if you'd make it tonight," the body on the bed said, looking up after wiping at her mouth with a tissue and throwing it away.

He blinked. That was Sara's voice. Grissom felt the blush. He'd promised her that he'd be back, but he'd nearly forgotten.

Making his way across the room slowly, he stared her in confusion. The doctors were treating her. She should be getting better. This couldn't be better.

Sara's left arm was propped on a stack of pillows, the entire thing swollen grotesquely. Angry black-and-purple streaks stood in stark contrast against her pale skin on both arms and hands. Several gauze bandages dotted her arms, reddish circles soaking through the multiple layers of cotton.

A single IV of blood remained hooked to her right hand. A transfusion – that wasn't a good sign.

"It's not contagious," she said lightly when he stayed away.

Grissom took a few steps to stand at the foot of her bed. It was neither fear of contagion nor disgust at her appearance that kept him away. It was shame. He meant to cheer her up, but he hadn't managed to say a thing since he came in.

"I guess I look as bad as I thought," she said dryly, holding another tissue to her mouth. When he made no move to answer, she gave him a worried look. Sara knew she looked like hell, but Grissom seemed on the verge of shock.

"Could you hand me the water?" she asked softly, pointing to a cup sitting beside the bed.

Her request was enough to get him to react. Setting the bag on a chair, he took the water and sat on the edge of the bed. Holding the cup out, Grissom's eyes widened as he saw the ugly bruise on her right temple.

"What happened, sweetheart?" he asked nervously, reaching one hand to brush her hair back tenderly.

"Oh, that? Nothing," she said, taking the cup. He didn't seem aware he'd used the endearment. "I got bored and was leaning my head against my hand. Not a good thing when you bruise easily. I'm okay, Grissom."

"Did the doctors check that out?"

"Yeah. It's just a bruise. My brain isn't getting squashed," she said, wiping her mouth before taking another sip.

A flash of red caught his attention Grissom blanched when he looked into trashcan, seeing the pile of blood-soaked material in it.

"Gums are bleeding. I hate spit," she sighed. Seeing his eyes dart back to her temple, she reached out to gingerly touch his hand.

Grissom looked down at her touch – the swelling and the bruising from the IV affecting her entire hand. He couldn't imagine how painful that must be.

"It looks worse than it is," she said, stroking her fingers lightly over the back of his hand, surprised when she felt his tremor. They locked gazes for a long moment before Sara broke contact. She was used to brief flashes of intensity in his eyes, but the sustained depth of emotion he allowed her to see was unnerving.

"How do you feel?" he asked softly, feeling embarrassed that she was trying to lift his spirits. What had he done to deserve this dedication?

"Like a grape that went through the wine press. Guess I look like one, too."

"You're beautiful," he said lowly, surprising both of them. He cleared his throat and turned towards the chair. "We, Catherine that is, thought you'd like some of your things. We had to process your apartment."

"I figured as much. Max and I got sick at the same time; makes sense we were poisoned at the same time," she said, looking away embarrassed. Before he could apologize for violating her privacy, she flashed him a grin. "The place is usually neater than that. I'm little behind in my laundry."

"Don't worry about it," he said quietly, his hand reaching out of its own accord to brush her hair again. "Do you want me to get a nurse to help you change?"

"Not yet. Once that thing's empty, I get to take a shower," she said, nodding at the IV.

Sara tilted her head as she watched Grissom stare at it in morbid fascination. He was scared; he may not be saying anything, but the emotion was clear in his eyes. She would have sworn he seemed guilty, but that made no sense.

"Maybe it's just me," Sara stated, waiting until Grissom met her eyes. "But it seems pretty twisted to keep sticking needles in someone with a clotting problem. I look like I got attacked by a rabid porcupine."

Scooting up gingerly, she grimaced slightly, giving Grissom a reassuring smile, but he didn't return it.

"How are you?" he asked, his voice soft, but still carrying his seriousness.

"I've got a little bit of bleeding in the digestive tract. It's not severe. My gums are bleeding," she said, holding up the tissue to her mouth. "And that's more disgusting than anything else. I hurt like hell, but they won't give me any aspirin."

Grissom snapped his head up to see her teasing look, wondering how she could joke at a time like this. Did she need to? Maybe Catherine was right; maybe this was scaring her. It had him frightened.

"The last thing you need is something that'll thin your blood," he said in mock-severity.

"That's getting better, too. They stopped the IV vitamin K treatments and switched to shots," she said, pointing to the bandages on her arms. "My INR is down to eleven. They seemed happy about that."

"It was twenty three," he said, looking away so she wouldn't see the look of relief that came over his face.

"What's normal?"

"One," he finally responded, but not until she fixed him with a steely glare.

"Oh. Well, the doctor doubts I can go home tomorrow. Maybe the day after."

"You're not fighting them?" he asked, trying to sound teasing. They were going to let her home soon. Good. That had to be good.

But the killer was still after her.

"The bathroom's closer to the bed here," she said, giving him a bashful look.

"Your stomach will settle once the warfarin's out of your system," he replied, trying to sound encouraging.

"I hope so," she said with a disgusted sigh. "I hate being sick."

"So I noticed."

"Thanks for calling my parents," she said after a minute.

"I promised I would," he said, trying not to sound defensive. He said he'd do it. Didn't she trust him with such a simple thing? He really had blown this.

"Yeah, but I know how busy things can get at the lab. I appreciate it," she said, wondering what had caused his mood swing.

"When will they be here?" he asked, grateful that she wouldn't be alone.

"I told them not to come. I don't want them around until the Pied Piper is caught," she said with a shrug. "Hippies. They'd probably invite him in for coffee and warfarin if he showed up at my apartment. Try to talk to him, give him a hug."

"Pied Piper?" he asked, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

"That's what they're calling the killer on the news. They found out it he's using warfarin and figured it was rat poison."

"Oh," Grissom said, trying to understand why the media insisted on giving bizarre names to cases. He gave her a smile, hoping it seemed authentic. He'd failed to cheer her up; she had done more to make him feel better.

The very least he should do was apologize to her. For everything. She deserved to know the truth, that none of this had been her fault. As he tried to figure out where to begin, a nurse entered the room, telling him he had to leave.

"I'll be back tomorrow," he promised. "Call me if you need anything."

"Thanks," she said, watching him curiously as he left.

* * *

Back at the lab, Grissom found Nick and Warrick had returned from Brandenburg's house. Jacqui had already examined all the carryout packages, lifting what prints she could find. She'd moved onto the other containers gathered from their homes.

In the Tox Lab, technicians had set up rows of samples. Each sample was soaking in distilled water so any residual warfarin would dissolve. The samples still needed to be chilled, run through the centrifuge and decanted before they could be run through the GS mass spectrometer. It would be a few more hours before the first batch of results came in.

Greg was in the process of swabbing the paper sacks from Sara's trashcan. They would have a better chance of having usable DNA than the waxed containers or wrappers, but even that was a stretch.

Brass had started interviewing residents of Sara's apartment complex, seeing if anyone had seen anything unusual. Archie had rounded up the last of the television tapes and was examining them.

Heading into the break room, Grissom found his team – minus one – watching him carefully. This was the time shift normally started, and they had been here for hours. He had never made it home today.

"How's Sara?" Nick asked, sliding a cup of coffee over to Grissom.

"She's responding," he said softly.

"What does that mean?"

Grissom turned to look at Catherine and then the others. Several people were watching from the doorway, their expressions cautious.

"She's bleeding internally, but not severely. They have her on a transfusion. Her INR is down to eleven. Her arm is pretty messed up. She won't be able to go home for at least another day. I got chased out by the nursing staff before I could ask any more questions," he said, his tone clearly indicating he wasn't going to say any more.

Once the lab staff returned to their jobs, Grissom gave his team an appraising look.

"We are not going to screw this one up. Sara, and Brandenburg, aren't safe until the killer is caught. What did you find in the trash from the drive-in?" he asked, turning to stare at Warrick.

"Nothing. We tested every container in there. No traces of warfarin on anything."

"And nothing from the victim's house, either," Catherine added.

"Dammit," Nick swore softly. "Is he going to back off them now that he failed? Or is he going to try again?"

"I say we catch him before he gets a chance," Catherine said.

* * *

Grissom was in front of the clear board in the Layout Room, examining the pieces they knew about the killer. The victims followed no obvious pattern. It seemed they were picked based on opportunity, rather than by physical characteristics.

Someone knew enough about all the victims to know when to administer the warfarin so they'd be alone thirty hours later. He knew them well enough that they felt safe taking either food or drink from him and consuming it.

Sara was the exception, and that could be explained by the killer not really knowing her work schedule. If he had been following either her or Brandenburg from the theater, he wouldn't have a clear idea what her schedule was; she'd pulled too many doubles.

The vibration of his pager ruined his concentration. A 'nine-one-one' from Tox sent him rushing down the hallway, his team joining him from all directions.

"We found warfarin on the wrappers from the deli. Both from the sandwiches and the pickles," the tech called out excitedly as they entered the room.

* * *

With Brass in the lead, the police stormed into the deli, startling the manager and crew that was closing up for the night.

"We have a warrant," the detective yelled, motioning for the workers to head into a corner.

"What's going on?" the manager demanded.

"The day before yesterday. You received a phone order for two pastrami sandwiches on rye and an egg salad on wheat to be delivered to an apartment complex down the street."

"Right. That was the order to Sara's place."

"You seem to recall that pretty easily," Grissom stated harshly.

"She's a regular. And that good-for-nothing delivery guy I just hired never returned after he dropped it off."

"I'll get us another warrant," Brass said, pulling out his cell phone.

"Catherine, you and Warrick process this place. The owner said the delivery guy, a new one, never returned from Sara's apartment. Brass, Nick and I will go there once we get the warrant. Make sure you check everything here."

* * *

"Las Vegas Police! Open up!"

Brass nodded to the officers with the battering ram, who quickly broke through the thin door of the rundown house. The team of police swept into the room, while another team guarded the back exit. After a series of "Clears" echoed through the house, Brass lowered his weapon, nodding to the two CSIs to follow him into the house.

"Dammit."

The police captain's soft swearing caught the attention of his colleagues. Swinging their lights around they walked over to the card table in the far corner of the room. Sitting on it were a mortar and pestle, traces of a white powder in the bottom.

The rest of the surface was covered in news clippings of the killings, photocopies of mathematical texts and digital photos of Sara.

_TBC_


	11. Ch 11

**Cardinality  
****Summary:** A serial killer is stalking the citizens of Las Vegas. Started out as a case file but the G/S aspect demanded equal representation. This is the edited version for this site. The complete version can be found at my web site.  
**Rating:** R for subject matter  
**A/N**: No real spoilers. Many thanks to Burked for teaching me how to be a serial killer, among many other things.  
**Disclaimer**: Obviously, I don't own anything related to CSI. If I did, certain characters would be getting more screen time – together!

* * *

"_I cannot help it; in spite of myself, infinity torments me."_ – Alfred de Musset

**Chapter 11**

Sara leaned against the concrete wall of the lab, arms crossed defiantly in front of her. She had her head turned away and sunglasses covered her eyes, but from her posture Grissom gathered she was pretty angry. _Probably at me._

Sara sat on a bench, a cup from one of the local coffeehouses clasped in her hands. She was bent forward, her elbows resting on her knees. Her look of sadness as she stared off in the distance was clear. _Did I make her feel that way?_

Sara walking out of a video store with a plastic bag; at a gas station, filling up her SUV; crossing a parking lot, possibly of her apartment complex; checking the mailbox.

Grissom dropped the last of the photos into an evidence bag, his breath labored as conflicting emotions fought for dominance. Seeing the questioning looks Brass directed towards him, he forced himself to remain collected.

Sara was safe, for now. He'd see to it she stayed that way.

The killer was still on the loose, though. At least now they had a name to place on their signature. Tomas Carrasco, twenty-four, a Las Vegas native who had dropped out of high school to form a rock band. His dreams never materialized, and he drifted through a series of dead-end jobs. Finally, he landed the starring role of delivery boy for a deli near Sara's apartment.

_What were the odds of that happening? Probably better than making it in show business. _

Had proximity been a factor in his decision to target Sara? Signature killers rarely switched genders of their victims. Grissom figured Brandenburg had been the target, but the photos cast doubt on that theory. Clearly, Carrasco had been following her.

He stole another glance at the evidence bag. Alone. In every shot she had been alone. Carrasco could have easily gotten to her. Even though she was trained in self-defense, all he needed was one blow to have killed her.

Damn. This had been too close.

If she hadn't pulled a double-shift that day, she would have been home all by herself, a perfect target. If Brandenburg's knee hadn't been bothering him, they would never have had advanced warning of the poisoning.

Too close.

Too something.

Fighting back a yawn, Grissom turned his attention to the other documents scattered across the card table. Printouts from various web news sites and message boards were mixed in with photocopied press clippings.

After staring at the pages for a moment, he began bagging them, being careful how he handled the papers so that any prints wouldn't be compromised. Pausing part way through, he quickly scanned the area around him.

"Nick!"

"Yeah?"

"Is there a computer or printer back there?"

"Nope."

"What about a phone?"

"Not in here," he called from the bedroom.

"Hit the bathroom when you're done with that," Grissom called out, turning to stare at Brass. "No printer, no computer. The guy doesn't even have a phone. But he has printouts from Internet sites."

"Public library has all of that. Ten cents a page for printouts," the police captain ventured.

"But they don't let you check out digital cameras. That's how those pictures of Sara were taken."

"Not likely he has an accomplice. Maybe he borrowed a friend's or family member's stuff."

"Or this isn't his center of operations," Grissom opined.

"Well, this place doesn't have a basement. There's no outbuildings, and the attic is completely empty except for a lot of undisturbed dust."

"We're missing something," Grissom stated softly, turning to walk around the room.

"Besides our killer?" Brass quipped, ignoring his colleague's angry look.

Going back to the card table, Grissom began examining the remaining documents. They were some sort of mathematical text. Equations and symbols swam before his eyes. Pausing long enough to wipe his arm across his eyes, he turned back to the cryptic writings.

It made no sense, at least to him. The equations didn't resemble anything that had been at the earlier scenes.

_Was it a clue to what he planned for his next victim? What he had planned for Sara? _

Grissom sighed as he turned the next page. Carrasco had highlighted some sections and written notes in the margins of the papers before he photocopied them. The notes didn't seem any clearer than the text, and the highlighted areas had darkened considerably when photocopied, obscuring some of the writing. Maybe QD could do something with it.

Unable to prevent the next yawn, Grissom stared at the page for a moment. Cocking his head, he examined the document in more detail, his subconscious clamoring for attention. _Was there some clue he was overlooking? A key to the next killing? To his hideout?_

Not able to discern what had caught his attention, Grissom started flipping through the pages. What wasn't right? Three pages down, he stopped cold: Sara's address and phone number were scrawled across the text. From the reddish-brown color, he presumed it was written in blood.

A distorted smiley-face stared mockingly at him from underneath her personal information.

"Sick son of a bitch," he muttered quietly as he reached for a swab. A quick test verified the stain was in fact human blood. Carrasco was taunting them. He was still going to go after Sara. "Damn him."

"Gil, go home," Brass said softly but firmly, resting a hand on his shoulder.

Grissom snapped his head to glare at the detective behind him. There was no way he was leaving this scene until it was processed. He wasn't taking any chances. Until they caught Carrasco, Sara wasn't safe. She wasn't going to spend the rest of her life wondering if this bastard was going to come back for her someday.

"You're tired. Go home. Get some sleep. Take a long shower. Go visit Sara later," Brass said, not frightened by his friend's evil looks. "You can't help her if you work yourself sick."

"I'm fine," Grissom stated, double-checking that he'd labeled the evidence correctly. He knew he was tired, but it wasn't so bad that he couldn't do his job.

"I thought getting obsessed was the killer's gig," Brass said pointedly, raising an eyebrow when Grissom jerked his head around in surprise. "Would you let any of your CSIs work this long without a break?"

He turned back to sealing the evidence bag. Sara worked shifts like this all the time. He shouldn't have let her.

_How could I have stopped her? Saw to it she had an outside interest. Considering how I treated her after her last 'interest', no wonder she'd been hesitant to find another. _

"Grissom," Nick called out, breaking his musing.

Turning around, the two men saw the Texan exiting the bathroom carrying a pair of blood-splattered work boots.

"Wolverines. Size 9 ½," Nick said. "Consistent with the type that left those prints we lifted back at the warehouse."

"We've got an APB out on Carrasco," Brass added, giving Grissom a pointed look. "It's my job to find him. We're tracking down his family now, seeing if he's hiding out with any of them."

"We know anything about this guy?" Nick asked.

"Never been arrested. Neighbors all report he wasn't the brightest candle in the chandelier. No one remembers him being violent or losing control. Wasn't exactly friendly, but no one considered him a threat."

"Signature killers rarely stand out," Grissom said absentmindedly as he scanned the room again. Nothing jumped out. A battered television, a few pieces of ragged furniture. No books. No magazines. "It's their ability to appear normal that makes them so dangerous. Get the rest of this bagged."

Frowning slightly, Grissom made his way to the kitchen. Seeing Sara's address had shaken his concentration. He couldn't blow this case. They'd found plenty of evidence; now wasn't the time to lose his cool. Carrasco wasn't going to walk because he messed up.

_Something was off. _

Giving his head a shake, Grissom walked to the refrigerator. He probably was just tired. It had been nearly forty hours since he last saw his bed. They had been in the middle of a double-shift when they had taken Sara to the hospital, and he'd been working since he left her there.

He'd take a nap after he visited Sara. Visiting hours wouldn't start for a while. He had plenty of time to finish this, and then do some work at the lab.

Carefully opening the fridge door, he quickly verified no blood was present. Where was it? The blood used to write the equations at all the scenes had been fresh; none had been frozen. To keep it fresh, especially in the desert heat, it had to be refrigerated.

Carrasco must have it with him. Was he planning to try to kill Sara again? She'd be safe in the hospital. Until Carrasco was caught, they'd have police watching her hospital room and then her apartment. He probably wouldn't take that kind of risk.

Probably.

But he'd already broken his signature once, by targeting Sara. Grissom sighed as he looked in the freezer. Profiling was more of an art than a science. It provided guidelines, not hard facts. While it could be very helpful in many cases, it was less handy when dealing with atypical killers like Carrasco.

_Did he have a backup victim in mind? Did he have a second location to work from? _

"Nick, did you find any warfarin bottles?" Grissom called out, opening the closest cupboard and sorting through the contents methodically.

"Not a one. And no sign of a machete, or a sword, no big blades," he said, moving to stand beside the kitchen door.

"Start loading up the evidence," he said, quickly searching the small kitchen while Nick packed their evidence.

No blood, no large blades, no warfarin, no brushes.

Carrasco had his tools with him. He was going to strike again.

The question was who the victim would be.

* * *

Jacqui looked up when Grissom strode into her lab. Hopping off of her stool, she waved him over to a display.

"The wrappers around the poisoned sandwiches and pickles had multiple prints on them."

"Makes sense," he nodded. Any number of employees could have come in contact with the material in the process of wrapping and packaging the food, not to mention Sara or Brandenburg's prints when they opened it.

"I have a positive match to Max; he has a national security clearance. His prints were on file with the FBI," she explained, pulling up some images on the computer. "There were also two clear prints that are unknowns. Nothing out of AFIS yet. There were several smudges and partials."

"Do any match what we lifted from the brush?"

"I couldn't swear to in court, but I think this is a match to one of them," she said, highlighting various reference points. "It's too smudged to be a high-probability match."

"Dammit."

"Well," she said, turning to look at him sympathetically. "Sara's door is another story. Two hand prints are a definite match to the partials we found earlier."

"That doesn't prove anything," he sighed in resignation. If Jacqui couldn't make the match, no one could. So far, they couldn't establish he had tampered with the food, only that he'd delivered it.

"He could have used the flat of his hand to knock. Nick's logging the evidence we brought in. There are some paper items in QD. Work with them. I don't want to take any chances with the prints. There's also a marble mortar and pestle," Grissom added.

"I love marble," she said, giving him a grin.

"I thought you would," he acknowledged. By itself, the stone was an excellent medium from which to lift prints. Considering it took two hands to use the mortar and pestle, it offered the best chance of success.

"I'll get right on it."

"Good," he said, heading towards DNA.

They had plenty of evidence, but linking it all together now was the key. At least they could establish Carrasco had been stalking Sara and had been to her apartment, but that didn't link him to the murders.

If the substance in the mortar was warfarin, and the blood on the boots matched any of their previous victims, then they'd have a serious case against him.

If they had a case.

Grissom tilted his head as he entered Greg's domain. It felt like he was missing something. Maybe Brass had been right. He was tired. Combined with his concern for Sara, he was jumping at shadows.

He wasn't as young as he used to be; working this many hours straight was taking its toll. He would have to take a nap after he left the hospital, or he'd be saying Carrasco was the wrong suspect.

"No luck with the deli wrappers," the lab tech said. "If there was any DNA on them, the wax ruined it. I've gotten something off the paper sack they were in. It's replicating now. Won't know if it's the killer's for a while."

"Let me know once you get anything."

"Will do, boss. If there's something else I can do, if you need a hand outside…"

"You're not going to a scene! I'm not going to risk this case because of a rookie mistake," Grissom snapped, closing his eyes briefly when he saw Greg take a step back. A nap was definitely in order.

"Sorry, just want to help."

"I know, Greg. If you want to help Sara, then do what you do best. Right now, it's this," Grissom said apologetically, holding his arms out to indicate the lab. "You're one of the best lab techs we have. There will be other cases you can go out in the field on."

"Thanks."

"I've got a pair of bloody boots – they're dirty, blood's dried up," Grissom said lightly. "Who knows how degraded it is. Think you can do something with them?"

"Oh, yeah," he said, giving his head a shake. "I'll start the immunoassays, see if the enzymes match. That'll verify if the blood matches any of the victims. So, if I crack this case, what do I get?"

"You get to keep your job."

"Right," Greg said slowly, unsure if his supervisor was serious.

Grissom left DNA, making his way to the morgue. It would take Tox, QD and A/V time to make anything of their respective evidence as well. Finding Robbins at his workstation, Grissom walked over and took a nearby seat.

"Good morning, Gil. How's Sara?"

"I was hoping you could tell me," Grissom said, rubbing a hand distractedly through his hair as he explained her worsened condition.

"Sounds about right," the coroner said, giving his colleague an apologetic shrug when he looked shocked. "Consider the timeline. Warfarin takes at least twenty four hours to become fully effective."

"It hadn't been that long from when she ingested the poisoned food until we got her to the hospital," Grissom realized.

"Right. Her body hadn't had time to completely react to the warfarin before."

"But they started the vitamin K treatment immediately."

"It'll take a couple of days before it completely reverses the effects. Until then, Sara's essentially a hemophiliac. She'll bleed profusely from any nick. The warfarin also weakens the blood vessels, so she's going to bruise easily for a while," Robbins said, giving him a friendly look.

"What about long-term problems?"

"It's not really well-documented. There's a chance there could be some liver problems, but it's not likely. Remember, warfarin is far more dangerous in multiple, smaller doses."

"Any short-term problems?"

"She's going to hurt like hell for a few days until the swelling in the joints goes down, but she should be fine."

"Thanks, Al," Grissom said, swearing as his pager went off. Another call from the sheriff.

* * *

"Deli looked clean," Catherine said, walking into Grissom's office. Taking a seat across from him, she eyed him disapprovingly. "You don't. Did you even go home yesterday?"

"No," he stated, ignoring her grimace as he turned back to the file on his desk. "Carrasco probably laced the food with warfarin after he left the deli. Why would the delivery guy be opening the packages inside the deli? It would have drawn attention to him."

"Probably doped the food in his car. Uniforms are looking for it now."

Catherine watched as her friend slowly sorted through crime scene photos. The lack of speed wasn't just because he was being overly cautious. It looked like his eyes were being kept open by sheer willpower.

Brass had called her about the incident at the house. Grissom was taking this personally, and he wasn't resting. He was going to make a mistake or get hurt if he wasn't careful. Trying to convince him of that was going to be a problem.

Maybe.

"Heard you found the good stuff," she goaded.

"There was a mortar, pestle, bloody boots, some mathematical text," he said evenly. "Photos of Sara."

"So, she was the target. What about the smiley-face?"

Grissom gave her a pointed look. "Been talking to Jim?"

"You know it."

"I'm fine," he stated, looking up long enough to give her a false smile.

"No, you're not. You're letting the killer get to you. That 'message' was left to distract us. It's working, at least with you."

"Catherine," he said, pausing as her comment replayed in his mind. "I have a meeting with the sheriff at 6 a.m. There's no point trying to get any rest between now and then. After that, I'm going to visit Sara at the hospital. I'll go home when I leave there."

"Okay," she sighed. It was better than nothing. "How does Sara fit with the profile?"

"She doesn't," he admitted.

"That's weird."

"Remember, he could have broken his signature if he felt insulted. The killer may have been afraid to go after Max. Sara would have been alone, hours before she had to go back to work. He may have felt she was a safer target," Grissom said slowly.

"Any idea how Carrasco links to the other victims?"

"Not yet," he said, tilting his head in confusion as he returned to the photos.

* * *

Grissom yawned deeply as he got off the hospital elevator. He'd wasted hours with the sheriff. The man seemed more worried about the media perception that one of his CSIs had been poisoned than with Sara's welfare.

The evidence was still being processed, but at least QD had been able to verify the writing matched what had been found at the crime scenes. The human blood used to write down Sara's address had degraded too much for the immunoassay to establish if it belonged to one of the victims.

Greg was staying late to finish the immunoassays on the blood taken from the boots. As he feared, the dirt had compromised the samples. Some of the enzymes showed a definite match, but not all of them. Greg had taken fresh samples, hoping to find uncontaminated blood.

Walking around the corner, Grissom glanced at his watch. Sara should have had time to finish breakfast, assuming she was well enough to eat. He could visit for a little while, grab a nap, then stop in again before heading back to the office.

He debated what to tell her. She would want to know the killer had targeted her, and he probably should tell her. The thought of being the one to tell her that fact didn't sit well with him. Grissom wanted to cheer her up, not make her upset.

She was probably lonely since she told her parents to stay in California. Her visitors would be restricted to essential medical and law enforcement personnel as long as she was in the hospital. Hopefully she didn't mind that he was the one visiting her.

It was selfish on his part. He wanted to spend time with her, even if he hadn't been able to lift her spirits on his last visit. At the bare minimum, he needed to apologize, to let her know that he was going to do whatever he could to make her happy – even if it broke his heart.

Grissom drew in a sharp breath when he saw the empty chair in front of Sara's door. The police guard was missing. At least one guard should be there at all times. He quickly spun around, scanning in all directions. No police were anywhere in sight.

Moving quickly, he ignored the shocked looks directed his way by the medical staff. Grissom cautiously entered her room. Maybe the guard had stepped inside to take a bathroom break.

Once inside, he was greeted by a member of the food staff collecting Sara's breakfast tray. Giving Grissom a friendly smile, the elderly woman explained an orderly had just taken her upstairs, along with her police escort.

"You go ahead and wait," she told him as she left the room. Instead, Grissom walked to the nurse's station to verify Sara's location. Once learning she'd be back in a few minutes, he returned to her room, taking a seat by the bed.

Placing his elbows on the mattress, he dropped his head into his hands. Why did they take her upstairs? Well, the nurse said she'd be back shortly, so it couldn't be anything serious.

Setting his hands on the mattress to push himself upright, Grissom paused when he felt the warmth. She couldn't have been gone long.

Feeling a bit foolish, he ran his hands along the sheet. _What would it have been like to wake up next to her? To smell her scent on the sheets? This is what I rejected._

The shrill ringing caused him to jerk his head upright, groaning as his muscles screamed in protest as he sat back in the chair. _Why is there a blanket over my shoulders? Where's Sara? _

Looking around in confusion, he saw her smirking at him from one of the room's chairs. Her left arm rested on some pillows stacked on the armrest. The adjustable tray was in front of her, holding another meal.

"Good morning. Well, afternoon," she teased, looking up at the next ring. "Could you hand me that?"

"What? Oh," Grissom said, getting up slowly to grab the bedside phone and walking it over to her. He must have fallen asleep while he waited for her. _Why didn't they wake me up? _

"Hi … I'm fine, Mom … Yeah."

He discreetly made his way into the bathroom to give her some privacy to talk to her family. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Grissom stole a quick glance at his watch. He must have been asleep for almost four hours.

Guilt washed over him; she had been forced to sit in a chair for all that time because he'd fallen asleep on the only bed in the small room. Great; not only had he failed to cheer her up on his last visit, now he was interfering with her recovery.

After spending a few more moments in the bathroom to allow her to finish the phone conversation, Grissom exited to find her smiling sweetly at him. _Huh?_

"Go back to sleep," she insisted.

"What? No," he said, shaking his head as he crossed the room. "You need to rest. I'm sorry. Why didn't you wake me up? You shouldn't have stayed in that chair."

"One, I'm sick of being in bed. I probably would have sat over here anyway. Two, you need to sleep, Grissom. You have to be tired. My boss yells at me when I pull stunts like that."

"Like what?" Grissom went back to his old chair, wondering if she really felt he'd been yelling at her. He hadn't been mad; he'd been concerned.

"I'm no fashion queen, but even I noticed that you're wearing the same clothes you had on when you brought me in. And you haven't showered recently, either," she said uneasily.

In all the years she known him, she'd never seen Grissom get like this. It was disconcerting. Sara pushed a covered bowl on the tray towards him. "Here. You probably haven't eaten, either."

"I'm not eating your lunch!"

Sara smiled at his insistent tone, realizing that he was embarrassed. It was touching that he'd been working nonstop to find the killer, but it wasn't safe. Even she took time to change and shower when she was working extra shifts.

"Well, the dietician here seems to think that chicken noodle soup is vegetarian, so I'm not going to touch it."

"Let me go find a nurse to get you something else," he said, shifting his chair closer to Sara. His stomach growled as he lifted the lid.

"Don't bother," she said, pointing to the remains of her meal. A half-eaten bowl each of applesauce and pudding sat next to empty cracker wrappers. "I'm not pushing my luck."

"How are you?" he asked, nodding towards the IV as he started sipping the soup.

"Anemic," she said sarcastically. "You had to be beat if you slept through that scene. I pointed out that if they'd stop sticking needles in me, I wouldn't be losing so much blood."

"I don't think they'll let you out earlier if you annoy them," he teased.

"Worth a shot."

"Is everything else okay? Were you upstairs for tests?"

"No," she said softly, wondering how he'd take the news. "I was visiting Max."

"How is he?"

"Better. He's been drifting in and out of consciousness. The doctor thinks he's going to be fine."

"That's good."

Sara gave him a confused look. While she doubted Grissom was celebrating the fact Max had nearly died, she wasn't expecting such a sincere sounding sentiment from him.

"How did you get in to see him?"

"Max's secretary listed me as a cousin. She told me when she dropped off the flowers," she said. "She said Max would have wanted some sent."

"That's true. He's good about that type of thing," Grissom stated, setting down the empty bowl, realizing he'd never thought about picking her up a present. Forcing a smile, he turned to regard her closely. "Max could probably make you very happy."

Sara stared at him in shock. Did he just say what she thought he said?

"I'm sorry I didn't react better earlier," he said, feeling uncomfortable under her continuing look.

"What's going on?" she asked softly.

"I want you to be happy. It's all that matters right now. I'm not going to interfere with that anymore."

Sara shifted her eyes back to the tray, taking a spoonful of applesauce as a diversion as she debated whether to press for a better answer. Things were confusing enough with a serial killer nearly killing both her and Max. Did she really want to add more confusion by trying to figure out Grissom?

Stealing a glance at him, she felt her resolve melt. His pain was so evident. Any doubts she may have had about his affections had been shattered by this experience. And he seemed ready to talk. Whether it was exhaustion or concern, he was being remarkably open.

"No matter what my decision is?" she asked softly.

"I can't really comment on some unknown guy you might pick in the future," he offered vaguely. While he had acknowledged that he would step aside, it didn't make it any less painful for him.

"And if it's not an unknown guy?"

"Greg?" Grissom asked in confusion. "Well, I guess he has potential. You really could do better."

"I wasn't talking about Greg," she said with a sigh. "I was talking about you."

"What?" he said softly.

"You. You said you wouldn't interfere anymore. You're the only thing that's kept us apart. Are you going to stop interfering?"

Sara watched sadly as he gaped at her. He really didn't trust her. She couldn't understand it, not completely. Grissom had been upset about Hank, but he had been the one to drive her to the paramedic.

"You really don't believe me, do you? You can't believe that I'm serious about this. Why? Have I ever lied to you, ever given you reason to doubt me?"

"Do you keep the newsletters from college?" he asked suddenly.

"What?"

"The alumni news from Harvard. Do you get it?"

"Sure," she said in confusion.

"I don't get mine anymore," Grissom said, getting up to stair out the window.

"Does this relate to my question?"

"It's the answer to it," he sighed. "At first, it was nice. I saw what my friends were doing. And it was nice to see my name in there when I completed my PhD, when I got a promotion or made the news. Then, I started noticing something. Everyone else was listing their personal information."

"People getting married, things like that?" she asked.

"Exactly. Even the biggest losers in my class were in there. The class scumbags even started listing when their kids were being born. I got to list I was published in a journal none of them ever heard about, while they raved about their kids."

"What does this have to do with us?"

"Everyone else had their marriages, their anniversaries, their kids, their grandkids. And all I ever had was my work. I've never even lived with a woman, Sara, and the biggest jerks in my class managed to get married. What does that tell you about me?"

"That you're worrying about something you don't need to. Getting married isn't a sign of success. You should know that. How many bad marriages have you seen in your career? You don't know any of those people are happy."

"But they managed to find someone willing to accept them, at least temporarily. I never could."

"Grissom, I don't care about your past. It's over. You can't change it. I'm only worried about the now, and the future."

"But the past is an indication of future behavior."

"So I know you're not going to run off with the first woman that throws herself at you," she said sarcastically. "Trust me, that's a good thing."

"Sara, this is complicated. Even if we don't consider the fact that I'm your supervisor, there's the age difference. And I've never really let you know me. You might not like what you find."

"Do you think I'm dumb? I know you're older than I am. I can do the math. I know I'll never catch up, either. You're always going to be older than me," she said without rancor.

"And this 'real' you – is he worse than the guy who's never consistent? The one who flirted with me one week and ignored me the next? The guy who pretended I didn't exist for months at a time? Or the guy, who when he finally talks to me, treats me like crap? 'Cause, I fell in love with that guy, God knows why," she said, letting out a disgusted breath.

An uneasy silence feel over the room. Grissom felt his stomach twist at her words. He knew how he treated her, but hearing Sara's pain as she listed off his transgressions had cut through him. The doubt in her voice had been clear. She regretted feeling the way she did.

"Look, I'm sorry. I hurt. I'm tired. I shouldn't have said those things. You didn't deserve that," she said apologetically.

Grissom turned around to watch her carefully. She did seem tired. Was everything okay?

"Do you want me to get a nurse?"

"Nah. I didn't get much sleep last night. Can we talk later?"

"I'll stop by tonight on the way to the lab."

"Don't."

"What?"

"I said don't. You're exhausted. Promise me you'll sleep. I might get out of here tomorrow. You can give me a lift. You still owe me breakfast. Well, it'll be lunch by then."

"Sara," he began, licking his lips nervously. "Will you stay with me?"

"What?" she asked incredulously.

"The killer targeted you. He had pictures of you in his house. I'd feel better if you didn't stay alone."

"Thanks, but no," she said eventually, shivering involuntarily. "I'm not going to let this guy run my life. The police will be watching my place. I won't open the door for strangers. I'll be fine."

Grissom let out a long sigh. He didn't like her answer, but both her posture and tone made it clear she wasn't going to back down.

"Fine. What time should I pick you up?"

"I'll have to call you. If my INR is down low enough, they're going to drain this in the morning," she said, nodding towards her left arm. "Once they're sure it's okay, they'll let me go sometime in the afternoon."

"Call me if you need anything," he said.

"I will," she said, watching as he headed towards the door. "Grissom? I meant what I said earlier. I can't make you trust me, that's something you're going to have to do yourself. It's going to be your decision, whatever happens. But remember, I picked you."

"Right," he said, giving her a smile as he headed towards his empty home.

* * *

"Grissom."

"Gil, they found Carrasco."

Despite his exhaustion, Brass's statement got his full attention.

"Where?"

"Outside of Bakersfield. State trooper found his car off of the side of the road. It had been driven down a gully."

"What about Carrasco?"

"He's dead. Single gunshot to the head. Locals are calling it as an apparent suicide."

_TBC_


	12. Ch 12

**Cardinality  
****Summary:** A serial killer is stalking the citizens of Las Vegas. Started out as a case file but the G/S aspect demanded equal representation. This is the edited version for this site. The complete version can be found at my web site.  
**Rating:** R for subject matter  
**A/N**: No real spoilers. Many thanks to Burked for teaching me how to be a serial killer, among many other things.  
**Disclaimer**: Obviously, I don't own anything related to CSI. If I did, certain characters would be getting more screen time – together!

* * *

"_I cannot help it; in spite of myself, infinity torments me."_ – Alfred de Musset

**Chapter 12**

Grissom sat upright in the bed, one hand running through his hair as he listened to Brass relay the details about Carrasco. The little bit of information he provided did little to help explain the situation.

Fleeing the state and committing suicide were an unexpected turn of events. Why? Carrasco may have realized they were on to him.

He'd made a terrible mistake going after two victims at one time. It limited the opportunities for the poisoning could have taken place. This time they could link Carrasco to the killings. He hadn't covered his tracks.

They had never recovered anything tainted with warfarin from the previous scenes. Presumably, he gathered any incriminating evidence when he came back later to kill his victims and harvest their blood.

His time schedule had been thrown out of whack by Brandenburg's trip to the doctor. Carrasco hadn't thought this attack out carefully. Brandenburg's insult had set the killer off, making him break his normal pattern.

But if he had been driven to change his signature out of rage, why had he gone after Sara instead of the mathematician who had insulted him?

It didn't make sense. Until he had the answers, he wasn't going to take any chances.

"I want the car, the body, everything back in Vegas," Grissom barked.

"No can do. Bakersfield isn't letting this one go."

"Dammit, Jim, they don't have our resources."

"Hey, I'm on your side here. It's politics. They got the 'Pied Piper'; it's one of the hottest cases around. No way they are going to pass on him."

"I want protection on Sara and Brandenburg until we get verification this is really Carrasco. He's smart; this could be a ruse," Grissom stated.

"I do know something about how to do my job," Brass said without rancor. "Relax. None of us want to see Sara hurt."

"I know," he sighed.

"Look, Gil. Be careful," Brass said cryptically.

"Call me when you get more information. I'll see you tonight," Grissom said, hanging up the phone. At the moment, he didn't feel like talking, or listening, to his friend's advice. He already knew what the detective thought of intra-office romances and older men dating younger women.

It wasn't anything he hadn't considered himself.

Grissom winced as his muscles protested when he reached over to set the phone down. Falling asleep bent over Sara's hospital bed had played havoc on his back muscles.

Rubbing his hands over his face, Grissom debated going back to sleep. So far, he'd managed less than nine hours sleep in two days, spread out over two naps. Deciding an extra hour wouldn't do much good, he padded off to the shower.

Standing under the hot spray, he let the water relax his aching muscles. He wasn't as limber as he used to be. Running the soap across his midsection, Grissom let out a sigh. He wasn't as fit as he used to be, either. Even though he'd lost a good bit of the extra weight he let creep on, he had a definite middle-age spread.

_Why did she pick me? _

Tilting his head back, Grissom closed his eyes as he let the water run down his face as he recalled, again, his earlier conversation with Sara. For hours after he returned from the hospital, he thought about all she had said.

She wasn't dumb; that would be the last adjective he'd ever use to describe her. Of course she was aware of their age differences. Sara wasn't flighty, either. It wasn't likely this was some sort of crush, especially after his behavior towards her.

But did Sara really understand what a relationship with him entailed? Did he?

Sara said she'd fallen in love with him. Giving his head a shake, Grissom braced his arms against the shower wall. He'd often dreamt of hearing her say that. Of course, in his dreams she'd never been in the hospital, nor did she sound disgusted with herself for feeling that way.

He had screwed things up. Still, she wanted to try to make things work. It was a risk. If it didn't work out, the pain and embarrassment would be incredible. Not that things were all the great anyway.

First things first. Until they verified the killer was dead, Sara was still in danger. He'd worry about how to fix this once she was safe. He wasn't procrastinating.

Not at all.

Her safety was the most important thing. Hopefully, Bakersfield wouldn't botch this case. He'd often worked with them. They were in relatively close proximity. The smaller city didn't have anywhere near the resources of the Las Vegas Lab, and in the past he'd been glad to help them out.

The CSIs at Bakersfield were adequate; none of them were really outstanding, but none were incompetent. Normally, he'd have no qualms about them investigating an apparent suicide. This case was too important, though.

_Why the hell did the politicians try to score points on cases that involved lives? _

Grissom dressed slowly, and then went into the kitchen to fix dinner. Bakersfield would fax them a report as soon as they had anything definitive. It would probably take at least a full day to make a positive ID on Carrasco. They'd probably have to rely on dental records; a bullet to the head often made visual confirmations impossible.

He debated about whether he should call Sara to update her on the case. Glancing at the clock, he decided against it. If she was asleep, he didn't want to disturb her.

Besides, he should have some additional details by the time he picked her up tomorrow.

Maybe he'd have some answers by then as well.

* * *

Heading towards the break room, Grissom saw the crowd watching the television set. He could hear the news anchor reporting on Carrasco's apparent suicide. When the cheering started, he raised an eyebrow in surprise.

They harbored no lost love for the criminals they dealt with on a daily basis, but they didn't relish in seeing them die. Their objectivity had been compromised. Not only had Carrasco targeted Sara, all of them were potential targets.

Scowling deeply as he entered the break room, Grissom walked over to get some coffee. He refused to join in the celebratory high-fives going around the room. That by itself wasn't surprising; it wasn't his style.

Instead, he had some lingering doubts about this case. Something didn't seem right, but he had no idea what it was. In all probability, Carrasco was just an atypical signature killer. Grissom frowned as he tried to figure out why the case still bothered him.

_It was personal. _

He silently admitted he was in no position to chastise the others for their behavior. Ever since accompanying Sara to the hospital, he'd lost his objectivity. That was dangerous in this line of work. It was coloring his perceptions.

His job was to follow the evidence. If that evidence didn't give him the answers he desired, it wasn't his place to start second-guessing everything. This is exactly why you never handled a case that involved someone you were close to. The answers you wanted personally couldn't always come from the evidence.

In hindsight, Grissom supposed he should have let Ecklie handle Sara's poisoning. As much as he disliked the day-shift supervisor, the man was a good CSI. Ecklie wouldn't have taken the case personally, would have been more detached.

Going over to the table, he sat down, waiting for the rest of the team to join him.

"How's Sara?" Catherine asked immediately.

"Better. She might be able to come home tomorrow afternoon."

"Did you tell her the good news?"

"What good news, Nick? We haven't verified that it really is Carrasco in that car. Until then, we're working on the premise that he's still on the loose."

"You think he pulled a switch?" Warrick asked.

"I don't know," Grissom said shortly. "I'm not taking any chances on this. I want to wrap this case up completely before we consider Sara or Max safe."

"You been able to link Carrasco to the other victims yet?" Catherine asked, noticing that he had started using the mathematician's first name.

"No. Brass is still piecing together his whereabouts for the past few weeks."

"It could be hard to figure out how he killed the others. He broke his pattern going after Sara. We may never find out how he poisoned them," said Warrick.

"And why did he go after Sara?" Nick asked. "It was Max that insulted him. Are we looking at a copycat killer?"

"I don't think so. Tox verified it was warfarin in the mortar. Same strength as used in the other killings. The press thinks he was using rat poison, not a prescription medicine. A copycat would know that," Warrick offered.

"And Carrasco had photocopies of mathematical texts," Grissom said, pausing as he brought his cup of coffee to his lips.

"What?" Catherine prompted.

"Huh? Nothing," he said, sipping his coffee. A frown formed as he swallowed the bitter brew. That had been one advantage of Sara dating Brandenburg – they always had decent coffee. Hopefully, the man would be in good enough shape to answer questions tomorrow.

"You get any sleep?" she asked softly.

"Not enough," he admitted. "Look, I'm going to review the evidence we have on the killings, try to wrap this up. Nick, you and Warrick go to Desert Sands Motors. Vandals damaged a bunch of cars. Catherine, there's a DB down in Sandy Valley."

"Yippee. Road trip," she muttered, pointing to the door with her head. The guys quickly left the room. "Why don't you go home?"

"I'm fine, Catherine."

"I'm sure you are. Look, there's nothing new the evidence can tell you now. Let it go, Gil. It's over. Don't obsess over this. It'll drive you nuts if you let it."

"I'm not going to let it," he said, giving her a pointed look over the top of his glasses. "Besides, I have a backlog of paperwork. If I don't get it done, the secretaries are going to start following me home."

"Poor things. Can't have that," she replied with a grin. "If I don't get back from my road trip before you leave, tell Sara to give me a call if she needs anything."

Grissom nodded as he headed towards the Layout Room.

* * *

Catherine raised an eyebrow as she approached the house. The number of green-around-the-gills officers standing outside was never a good sign. Checking in with the deputy, she slipped under the tape, to be greeted by an overpowering smell.

"Oh, God," she said, looking at the withering mass on the bathroom floor. This guy had been dead for weeks. Most of the tissue had decomposed to slime, exposing the bones. A variety of bugs crawled over and through the remains, devouring what was left of the body.

"Nope, just Vince Morabito. Sorry," said a Nevada State Trooper when Catherine turned to glare at him. "Guy had a bit of an ego."

"You know him?"

"Everyone around here does. He was an eccentric. Had a way of starting fights. Always getting into some sort of trouble."

"You find the body?"

"Yeah. When he skipped his rent payment, the landlord called and asked us to do a courtesy check. Vince has been pretty ill for a while."

"Didn't he have any family?"

"Vince had some nieces and nephews. Like I said, he had a way of starting fights. Got to the point no one could stand to be around him anymore."

"How old?"

"Would have been eighty seven next month."

"Why was it called in?" Catherine asked. Normally, CSI didn't investigate deaths of the elderly. Natural causes weren't a crime. Nothing in the room gave any clues that something else had happened.

Shining her flashlight around the small room, she saw the tub faucet had a steady drip. In the enclosed space, it would have kept the humidity high enough to allow the body to rot, rather than mummifying in the heat.

"His van is missing. It looks like someone went through the drawers in the kitchen and bedroom."

"Okay," she said, heading out of the bathroom to investigate the rest of the house. Until David came, she couldn't touch the body. It was silly. The guy was obviously dead, but it was procedure. "What the hell?"

Her flashlight swung across a blackboard. A tarot card was taped to the center of the board, near the top. Underneath, a group of symbols were arranged in rows. What looked like Hebrew letters and the word "Abel" were sprinkled among the writing.

Great. One serial killer dead, and now they had a cult killing.

"Oh, don't mind that. Vince found out he had a terminal heart condition about six months ago. Ever since then, he got real philosophical about death. Starting reading all that stuff. Astrology, I Ching. He had stuff like that up all the time."

"Okay," she said in relief. The last thing the lab needed was another high-profile case. She was worried enough about Gil now. Despite his assurances, he had let this case get to him. If he didn't get some sleep soon, she was concerned he'd crack.

Setting her gear down, Catherine began the process of photographing the house. The guy was a slob. It was hard to tell if his things had been disturbed or not. If he had a terminal condition, he could easily have died and had his van stolen later.

She debated calling Grissom out. The bugs would be a nice distraction for him. Unfortunately, it would also mean him having to drive out here. In his current state, Catherine would feel better if he stayed off of the highways.

On her own drive out, she'd been on the phone with Brass. Both of them were concerned with their friend. Gil was taking the Pied Piper case too personally. He was letting the taunts Carrasco left for them at the house get to him.

Then there was Sara. He wasn't being very discreet about his feelings. The two of them probably could get away with a relationship, but not if Grissom couldn't keep it professional. And if she ended up with Max, Gil had to learn to control his disappointment. He could lose his job either way.

Seeing David rolling in a gurney, she quickly finished photographing the messy bedroom. She'd get a lot of bugs off of the body. It would give Grissom something to play with when she got back to the lab.

* * *

"Gil, just got off the phone with Bakersfield," Brass said, leaning into Grissom's office. "They've made a positive ID of Carrasco."

"How?" Grissom asked, snapping his head up quickly. It was too soon to have gotten his dental records.

"Guy used to be in a band. He has some unique tattoos with their name on his body. He also has a pin in his leg from a motorcycle accident."

"Thanks," Grissom said, dropping his head back to the paperwork. "Let me know when they get the dental records verified."

"Yeah," the detective said, shaking his head as he left the office.

Once Brass was gone, he leaned back in his chair, tapping his pen against the file. After spending hours reviewing the cases, he'd been unable to find a link between Carrasco and the other victims. That lack of connection irked him.

Now he understood how the victims' families felt. They may have found the killer, but not knowing the 'whys' of the case was very frustrating. They never figured out his motive, why he wrote the mathematical equations or who the first victim had been.

Catherine was right. He had to let this go and accept that there would be no answers. Carrasco could have been insane. There may have been no logic to his killings. If he weren't careful, he would become obsessed with this case.

It was over. Sara would be fine, and it looked like Brandenburg would recover. All that was left was deciding what to do with the rest of his life, and what role Sara would play in it.

Trying to figure out Carrasco seemed like the easier option.

Letting out a sigh, Grissom took his glasses off and rested his head in his hands. He was exhausted. A quick glance at his watch verified the shift was nearly over. Hopefully, Sara would be discharged from the hospital today. Since she wouldn't be released until the afternoon, he had time to get some sleep.

First, though, there were some details he needed to take care of. A quick trip to the locker room secured the items he wanted. Swinging by the DNA Lab, he called out to the technician.

"Greg, you said you wanted to help Sara."

* * *

Grissom frowned as he walked down the hospital corridor. No guard was outside of Sara's door. As far as the sheriff was concerned, the 'Pied Piper' was dead, and this case was over. He wished he could put the experience behind him as easily.

Knocking lightly, Grissom was greeted with a broad smile when he entered the room. Sara was sitting on the bed in her pajamas, her left arm resting in a sling and no IVs present.

"Ready to blow this joint?" he asked lightly.

"In a few minutes. The doctor's going to take a last check of my arm before they kick me out."

"I thought you might want something clean to wear out of here," he said, holding out a bag. "I grabbed you a set of coveralls."

"Thanks. I think the old set dissolved," she said, taking the bag and heading to the bathroom to change. When she came back a few minutes later, she held her vest questioningly.

"Humor me. They haven't verified Carrasco by dental records yet," he said with a smile. "I don't want to make a habit of falling asleep in hospital chairs."

"You could have gotten in my bed," she teased as she gingerly donned the vest.

"I wouldn't have wanted to leave," he said gravely, giving her an intense look.

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

Grissom shrugged. "Not bad. More like overwhelming."

"Like you're in over your head?" Sara asked, recalling the statement he had made in her apartment earlier.

"Something like that," he said hesitantly.

"I won't push you. I'm not asking for a lifetime commitment," she said softly.

"That wouldn't be a problem," he admitted, shocking them both. "It's, well, it's an all or nothing situation, Sara. Once I let you in, I won't want you to leave. I don't want to think what that would be like."

When the doctor entered the room, Grissom turned away and stared out the window while Sara's arm was quickly examined.

"Now, Ms. Sidle, you'll need to come back every day for blood work until your INR is back to normal. Right now, it's at three point seven. That's low enough that you shouldn't have any spontaneous bleeding, but you'll still have trouble clotting if you get injured."

"Right."

"Here's a list of symptoms to watch out for. If you experience any of these, call nine-one-one immediately. We'll check your arm again tomorrow. You can probably ditch the sling afterwards. We're giving you some iron tablets to take with you since you're still anemic."

"Thanks," Sara said, quickly signing her discharge papers. She shook her head in disgust when an orderly pushed in a wheelchair.

Grissom gathered her things, handing them to her once she was seated. Giving the orderly a nod, he stepped behind the wheelchair.

"Would you like to visit Max before we leave?" Grissom asked as he pushed her towards the elevator.

"I already did this morning."

"How is he doing?"

"He still hasn't completely come around, yet. The doctor said it should only be another day or so."

"Oh. That's good," he said as the doors closed.

They settled into an uneasy silence when others joined them on the next floor. Sara played with the leaves of the plant the lab had sent as a get-well present, wondering if Grissom had been the one to suggest it. If so, it had been a good call on his part. She appreciated the beauty of cut flowers, but preferred the living plants.

Had that been a guess on his part, or did he actually know her well enough to realize that? With Grissom, it was always so hard to tell. The walls he built over the years were impressive, but he was slowly allowing her to see glimpses of what was behind those walls.

What she had seen surprised her. Grissom seemed so confident. Well, at work he was. It would be hard to find someone with a better forensics background than his. But apparently, his personal life was another matter.

At least she now understood him better. Knowing he was insecure helped to explain his behavior. It didn't excuse his actions, but it did make it easier to comprehend. Unfortunately, it didn't give her any idea how to deal with the situation.

Grissom's insecurities were his own personal demons. He had to confront them himself. All she could do was offer encouragement and be patient.

But for how long?

It had taken him years to get this far. Now that he'd admitted that he cared, would things progress faster? Or would it take years before he could trust her?

More importantly, Sara wondered how long she'd be willing to wait.

She loved Grissom. There was no doubt on that point. But she didn't want to spend the rest of her life alone. If he was never going to let her in, she didn't want to hold out false hope. But if there was a chance, even slim, she wanted to take the chance.

The silence was beginning to bother her.

"You know, I don't like being pushed around," Sara deadpanned as he pushed her towards the parking garage.

"I never noticed," he said lightly, giving her a gentle smile when she turned to look at him.

"Thanks. For everything," she said as he helped her into his car.

From her strained motions, it was clear she was still in pain. Robbins had said it would take a few days before the swelling in the joints went down, and there were the multiple bruises where needles had been injected into her skin.

"You're welcome," he said softly.

Grissom kept the conversation light as they headed back to her apartment. Once there, he scanned the area, looking for potential trouble. Despite his efforts to be discreet about it, Sara's hint of a smile showed she had been aware of his efforts.

"Red Creeper."

He gave her a curious glance. She pointed to the edge of the doorframe, the bright red dusting powder still evident in places.

"I'll clean that up later."

Sara made no response as she entered her apartment. Grissom walked around to the breakfast bar to set down her presents, placing the bag of clothes on one of the stools. Turning around, he was surprised to find her staring around the apartment, her right hand absentmindedly rubbing the back of her neck.

"Sara?" he asked gently, moving to stand behind her. He resisted the urge to touch her shoulder, knowing it would be painful.

"Poor David."

Grissom blinked in confusion, moving to stand in front of her.

"He's so sweet. It would have been rough on him," she said, giving Grissom an odd look, before turning around, looking at the ceiling. "I wonder where he would have hanged my body."

"God," he whispered. She was imagining what the crime scene would have looked like. He had purposefully tried not to think about it, fearing the nightmares it would cause.

"I don't think the shower rod would have supported my weight."

"Sara!"

"Sorry," she said, giving her head a shake. "This is very surreal."

"I can only imagine," he said softly. "Sara, my offer still stands. If you're uncomfortable staying here, I have a guest room."

She shook her head again, giving him a brief smile. Her attention kept drifting to the red walls. In the past, she'd always considered the color rich, now it reminded her of blood.

"No. I'm not letting this guy get to me."

"All right. How do you feel? Think you could handle a full meal, or do you want something light?"

"What?" Sara asked, turning to look at him in bafflement.

"I still owe you a meal."

"Oh. Didn't you take all the food from here? You had to have checked things."

"Already taken care of," he said, directing her to the breakfast bar, where a series of grocery bags sat.

"Thanks," she sighed. "What do I owe you?"

"Nothing. It's a get-well present."

"Grissom!"

"I know you don't like to cook, and I didn't think you'd be comfortable with carryout for a while."

"You did this for me?" she asked, her head cocked in wonderment.

"Well, I sent Greg to the store this morning. I told him to get things that were easy to fix," he explained as he started to empty the bags. Grissom frowned at the contents. Pop-Tarts, cookies, sugarcoated cereals.

"I didn't think I needed to tell him to pick up healthy food," he groused as he pulled out another box of cookies.

"There's canned fruit and soups in here," she said, peeking inside another bag. She found a note beside the last bag. "Says there's more stuff in the fridge and freezer."

"Hmmm," Grissom grunted, moving to check the contents. "Okay, there's some microwave entrees up here. All vegetarian, of course."

"Glad you remembered."

"Like I'd ever forget that."

"Sorry," she said with a shrug,

"I'm sure I deserved it," he said evenly, checking the contents of the fridge. "Now about your dinner."

"Something light for me," she said. "Stomach's still a little upset."

"Soup and crackers?" he asked, pulling out the offerings from a bag.

Sara nodded, moving to open a cabinet. The kitchen was small. It was going to take some creative packing to put away all of the groceries, even if all the previous food was missing.

Not missing. Evidence. In her attempted murder.

She shivered at the thought of Carrasco poisoning her food and waiting to come back to kill her. That he'd tracked her down. Been back to her apartment. It was disturbing. Now she understood why Nick had wanted to move out after the Nigel Crane incident.

"Hey, I'll take care of that," Grissom whispered in her ear, causing her to start. How long had she been staring at the shelf with a box of spaghetti in her hand? "Why don't you go sit down? It'll only take a few minutes for the soup to heat up."

"No thanks," she said, looking away.

"Go ahead," he gently urged, prompting her to mutter something.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing. Really," she said, sighing when he raised an eyebrow in challenge. "Hematomas."

He looked at her arms in confusion. They were covered in them; the bruising from one merging into the next. What did that have to do with sitting down?

"My ass is one big bruise," she said quietly, blushing as she turned away.

Grissom watched her, his mouth half-open. How was he supposed to respond to that? On top of being embarrassed and in pain, this whole experience was clearly upsetting her. What would cheer her up?

"Want me to kiss it and make it better?"

He smiled when she whirled around to stare at him.

"You didn't just say what I thought you said. Did you?"

Grissom nodded, his grin widening when she shook her head and started chuckling.

"What would you do if I answered 'yes'?"

His grin faltered until she gave him a wink, letting him know she was only teasing.

After dishing up their soup, they stood on either side of the counter, making casual conversation. Grissom offered to wash and put the dishes away while Sara sorted through her mail and e-mail.

"I'll pick you up after work tomorrow and drive you to the hospital," he said as he walked out of the kitchen.

"Thanks," Sara said, moving to stand by him. "Would you like to have breakfast first? I think I have enough for two."

"I'd like that," he said softly, mentally kicking himself for not being able to come up with a better response. She'd nearly died. The least he could do was make some sort of gesture.

Licking his lips, Grissom opened his arms and stepped forward hesitantly. Sara placed her right hand on his chest, a gentle reminder that she was still in pain as he wrapped his arms around her.

The warning had been unnecessary; Grissom kept his embrace gentle, his hands barely making contact with her body as they slid across her back. She could feel the heat from his body more readily than she could feel his skin. He was taking considerable care to avoid hurting her.

Sara closed her eyes, as she slid her arm around his neck and leaned a bit closer to him. The bulky vest he still wore prevented her from getting as close as she wanted, but it was enough to electrify her.

When he dropped his head beside hers, she enjoyed the smell of him. Sara felt the tremor when his warm breath hit her neck, causing goose bumps to rise.

Grissom turned his head slightly, bringing his beard in contact with her cheek, rubbing his whiskers gently against her as his hands tenderly caressed her back, the tips of his fingers barely coming into contact with the material of her shirt.

When he finally pulled out of the embrace, he twisted his head more, his lips grazing against her skin sensuously. Realizing what he'd done, he blushed and started to step back. He hadn't meant to rush things and feared she would be upset with him.

Sara recognized his panicked look. She couldn't fight Grissom's demons for him, but she could let him know it was all right. Her hand moved forward to stroke his cheek, stopping his retreat. Seeing the confused look in his eyes, she smiled reassuringly as she moved her hand to run her fingers gingerly through his beard.

Keeping eye contact, Sara moved her hand gently down until it reached his chin, where she allowed her fingers to roam through his whiskers then over his lips before moving back up to repeat the motion.

Grissom closed his eyes at the touch, feeling his breath growing ragged. When she delicately started another stroke, he leaned softly into her hand, being careful to not cause her any pain. His eyes shot open when he felt her lips dancing lightly across his own.

"Thank you," she whispered, finally stepping back and breaking the contact.

Grissom alternately smiled and gaped at her. The look of adoration in her eyes was impossible to miss. She smiled sweetly, walking with him to the door.

_She really does want to be with me. _

Unable to think of something coherent to say, he told her to call him if she needed anything before they shared another brief kiss goodnight.

Grinning widely, he headed towards his townhouse to change before going into work early. There was no way he'd be able to sleep now, no matter how much he needed it.

* * *

After giving out the night's assignments, Grissom went to the Layout Room. He still couldn't put this case down. The dental records confirmed it was Carrasco. His family was complaining that he couldn't have been the killer, but that wasn't unusual.

Sorting through the evidence, Grissom fought to keep the smile off of his lips. If nothing else, this case had brought he and Sara closer together. They still had a long way to go. He realized it would take time before he completely trusted her, and vowed to make sure she found the wait worthwhile.

Letting out a sigh, he began packing away the evidence. When he came to the stack of photocopied materials, he made a note to check with QD to see if they'd had any luck deciphering the notes Carrasco had written on the pages before he photocopied them.

Grissom froze as he started to put the pages into the evidence box.

"Dammit!"

Grabbing his kit, Grissom ran out of the building, nearly colliding with Catherine on his way out. He quickly drove back to Carrasco's house. Breaking out the fingerprinting supplies, he headed to the bathroom. Packing those away, he headed to the bedroom.

"Goddamn it!"

Pulling out his cell phone, Grissom made his way back the Tahoe quickly.

"Brass."

"Jim, get officers back to Sara's place now. And the hospital," he exclaimed as he pulled into traffic.

"What's up, Gil?"

"Carrasco couldn't have been the killer. He's still out there."

_TBC_


	13. Ch 13

**Cardinality  
****Summary:** A serial killer is stalking the citizens of Las Vegas. Started out as a case file but the G/S aspect demanded equal representation. This is the edited version for this site. The complete version can be found at my web site.  
**Rating:** R for subject matter  
**A/N**: No real spoilers. Many thanks to Burked for teaching me how to be a serial killer, among many other things.  
**Disclaimer**: Obviously, I don't own anything related to CSI. If I did, certain characters would be getting more screen time – together!

* * *

"_I cannot help it; in spite of myself, infinity torments me."_ – Alfred de Musset

**Chapter 13 **

Nick walked into the Microscopy Lab, a puzzled look on his face. Pulling up a stool beside Catherine, he waited until she finished her phone call.

"You know what's up? Got a page from Griss to get back here ASAP."

"That was Sara," she replied in confusion, holding up her phone. "Gil just called her. Told her to stay inside her apartment because the killer was still alive."

"But Carrasco's dead, isn't he?"

"You can't get much deader than blowing your brains out," she said, letting out a long breath. "Bakersfield confirmed it was Carrasco."

"But he's not the killer," Brass said, walking in and crossing the room to join them. "At least according to Gil."

"Based on what?" she asked.

"Hell if I know. Cath, I'm tellin' ya, he wasn't making any sense. Kept talking about the photocopies."

Catherine frowned as she gave her head a shake. Gil had been working on very little sleep for days, and there was no denying the case was bothering him. She and Brass had discussed their concern for him earlier. Sara hadn't said anything outright, but she'd been concerned enough to call. Had exhaustion finally caught up to him?

She looked at Brass, who gave her a half-shrug, indicating he had his doubts as well.

"There were photocopies of articles and some text books. What did he say about them?"

"That he missed 'it' earlier. Repeated that a couple of times. Then he hung up on me. Said he had to call Sara."

"Did you send any officers?"

"Yeah. The sheriff is going to raise hell about it, but I figured Gil's track record is worth taking a chance on. He's usually right," Brass answered uneasily. "He said he'd explain it once he got here."

"What does he think he missed?" she mused rhetorically, running down the evidence they had collected. "The warfarin was consistent with what was used in the poisoning. The boots matched the prints Nick lifted at the warehouse, and Greg verified the blood on them matched two of the victims."

"Did Bakersfield fax over the ten-card yet?" Nick asked.

"No. Carrasco had sanded his fingers. They couldn't get any prints," she said slowly.

Using sandpaper to remove fingerprints wasn't an uncommon practice among criminals, but why had Carrasco waited to do it until after committing the murders? He hadn't planned on losing the brush – maybe it was an afterthought.

"Interesting," Brass said.

"Yeah, but we lifted the prints from the photos, the documents, the mortar and pestle, the card table, the door handles. They all match the partials we found."

"DNA?"

"Bakersfield can do it, but they're still using an RFLP analyzer. It'll take them weeks to get a match."

"Even if Gil is right, none of this explains Carrasco. Why would he kill himself? Are we sure he committed suicide?"

"It was a gunshot to the head, Jim," she stated, shaking her head. "You know how hard that is to fake."

"Could Bakersfield have overlooked something?" Nick asked.

"They e-mailed us a copy of the report. The angle of entry on the bullet is right for a self-inflicted wound. I examined the pictures. There's definite blowback spattering on the hands. He was holding the gun."

"Rigged so someone else pulled the trigger?" Brass ventured half-heartedly.

"There weren't any voids on the shirt, or his arms. If someone else pulled the trigger, there would have been," she said firmly. "Carrasco killed himself. That much is clear."

"So what was in those photocopies?" the detective asked after a long sigh. None of this was making any sense, and he didn't like that. If Grissom had rattled out long Latin names or quoted some obscure fact, he would have accepted his friend's statement more readily.

"I don't know," she said with a shrug. "Gil's the one with the experience with signatures."

The subject of their discussion stormed by the lab down the hallway. They caught up with him leaving the Print Lab, calling back over his shoulder to tell Jacqui to rush it.

"Did you send the officers?" he asked without stopping.

"Yeah. What's up Gil?" Brass asked bluntly.

"Nick, shoes," Grissom said, heading towards the Layout Room, a confused trio following in his wake.

"What about them?"

"Did you find any shoes other than the work boots in Carrasco's house?"

"No."

Grissom looked up from the box of evidence to give him a harsh look. "Didn't it occur to you that was a little odd? Why didn't you mention it at the time?"

"Griss," he began slowly, "that place was a dump. The guy didn't have any money. He sure wasn't the Imelda Marcos of the neighborhood."

"He wasn't that poor. They didn't find any warfarin, the knife or the blood in Carrasco's car, did they?"

"He could have ditched that stuff along the road," Brass pointed out.

"What size shoes was he wearing when Bakersfield found him?"

"I don't know," Catherine replied. "They sent a copy of the coroner's prelim. They didn't have the tox screens back yet, but it's obvious he shot himself."

"That doesn't change the fact he's not the killer."

"Gil, start at the top and explain this for the rest of us. You're not making any sense," Brass demanded.

"Photocopies. The killer wrote notes in the margins, and he highlighted other areas of those textbooks," he said with a long sigh. Pulling out the documents, he indicated various sections. Seeing the confused looks, Grissom again pointed out the areas in question.

"He did that _before_ he made the photocopies. The originals, with his notes, are still out there somewhere. The newspaper clippings are photocopies, too. Why would he leave copies laying around unless he wanted to throw us off his trail?"

The others exchanged a series of looks and shrugs.

"You were right, Catherine. He's taunting us. That's why he wrote that smiley-face in blood under Sara's address. Why else would he do something like that unless he intended for us to find those pages?"

"But you lifted the killer's prints off of Sara's door, Gil. If he did that just to taunt us, why did he go back?" she asked softly.

"I don't know. Maybe to keep us off balance. Maybe he was going to kill her after Max went to the hospital. I don't know!"

"Gil, you're tired. We'll look into this. Why don't you …" Brass started, only to have Grissom turn quickly to face him.

"No. Signature killers are smart. You said it yourself: the neighbors all reported Carrasco was an idiot. There's no way he could have worked out a plot this detailed, let alone handle the mathematics involved."

"But Max said he made all kinds of basic mistakes," Nick said, casting a worried look at Catherine.

"Excuse me," Jacqui said knocking softly on the door. "I checked those prints you brought in from the house, Grissom. They all came from the same person."

The others turned to look at Grissom expectantly, but were interrupted again by Jacqui.

"But they don't match the prints from the brush or lifted at the scenes."

"Thanks, Jacqui," Grissom said with a smile, waiting until she was gone before turning to the others.

"Where did you lift those prints?" Nick asked.

"The killer's prints were found in the obvious places. On the evidence we took from the house, on the card table, the door handles. I went back and checked the less-obvious places. Carrasco's toothbrush, his shampoo bottle, the toilet seat."

"Carrasco lived alone," Brass said, nodding his head. "Not likely there'd be anyone's prints on his personal items."

"Could he have been helping the killer?"

"I doubt it, Nick. A signature killer rarely works with another person. The murders are very personal to them; they wouldn't share it with someone else."

"It still doesn't explain why Carrasco killed himself," Catherine pointed out.

"I know. The killer may have forced him. Have Al go over the report from Bakersfield. Make sure it wasn't faked some how."

"Okay, Gil, but I already checked the photos. The splattering on his arms and hands shows he was holding the gun."

Grissom let out a sigh and leaned against the table. Running both hands over his face and through his hair, he took in a deep breath before standing upright.

"All right. Let's pull all the evidence on this case. We'll start at the top and go over everything. We know he planted evidence at Carrasco's house; he may have done the same at the other scenes."

"Nick," Brass said softly, pointing towards the door with his head. The younger man nodded in return and left the room, pulling the door shut behind him. "Go home, Gil."

"Jim," he began.

"Go. Home. Now," the detective said firmly. "You're beat. You're barely coherent. Let me do my job, finding out Carrasco's whereabouts the past week or two, see how he ties into this case."

"I'm fine," Grissom said.

"No, you're not," Brass said, letting out a frustrated grunt. "Don't make me go to the sheriff. Look, I know you're worried about Sara. I sent officers there. She's sharp. If there's anything suspicious going on, she'll call it in."

"Jim's right, Gil. You know more about signatures than the rest of us put together. If we're going to crack this case, we need you in shape to work," Catherine said kindly. "You can't help Sara this way."

"Fine," he muttered.

"Let the rest of us piece together what happened to Carrasco. You rest. We'll review everything tomorrow," she said, curious as to why he agreed so quickly.

"Right," Grissom said as he headed out the door.

Brass gave her an eye roll before leaving. Deciding to play a hunch, Catherine pulled out her cell phone.

* * *

Grissom ran his hand over his face as he walked down the hallway of Sara's apartment building. He had called her earlier, after he got off the phone with Brass, but wanted to verify she was okay. When he'd pulled into the complex, he'd been pleased to see a police car parked in sight of her building.

As he came around the corner, he saw Sara's door open, a deputy standing outside. Scowling deeply, Grissom waited until they finished chatting and she said goodbye before following her inside.

"You shouldn't have done that."

"What?" she asked, walking around the breakfast bar to hand him a glass of juice.

"Opened the door for him. He could be the killer for all we know."

"Using that logic, so could you."

"You know me."

Sara gave him a measured look. She had been on her way to do laundry when he had called, barely making any sense as he made her promise to stay in her apartment. He explained briefly that he thought the killer was still on the loose.

She didn't know whether to believe him or not. He hadn't been very convincing in his explanation. Her phone call to Catherine confirmed what she suspected: he hadn't been sleeping since she had been taken to the hospital. Looking at him, it was obvious he was exhausted.

Catherine had called her back later, saying she thought Grissom would be headed to her apartment. She expanded on his reasons for believing Carrasco hadn't been the killer. While he had brought up some valid points, it wasn't any reason to get paranoid.

As it was, it was hard enough to figure out how to deal with this. Being targeted by a serial killer had been disturbing. Finding out he could still be alive and out to get her made Sara both angry and frightened.

Now, she had to deal with a man she loved, but who wasn't the most emotionally secure person in the world.

"Deputy Eric Holson. Lived in Las Vegas for the past eleven years. Moved here from El Paso. Allergic to strawberries," she replied, taking her own glass from the breakfast bar.

"I didn't realize you _knew_ him so well," he said shortly.

Sara rolled her eyes, biting back her comment. She was willing to cut him some slack due to his lack of sleep. Grissom had yet to even register the fact that she had the drink ready for him before he got there. But his comments were pushing the limits of her patience.

"Been married for nine years. Wife is expecting their third child in a couple months," Sara said pointedly. "We work with these guys on a daily basis, Grissom. Of course, I know them."

"Really," he said, refusing to look up at her.

She took a deep breath before blowing it out softly, forcing herself to remember he was tired. Add his insecurities, and she could understand where his comments were originating. Still, he needed to get his jealousy under control.

"Do you want hear how many guys I've _known_ since I moved to Las Vegas?" she asked with a forced calm. She didn't want this to blow into a fight, but she wasn't going to back down, either.

Sara's irritation finally made its way through his mental fog to register with his brain. Looking up sheepishly, he saw her watching him intently.

"No," he said quietly, giving his head a slight shake.

"One. Hank. The dumb guy who was cheating on me. Well, no, using me to cheat on his girlfriend," she added with a shrug.

"Sara,…"

"No. Listen. I spent over a year dating the jerk and never realized he was using me. Maybe I should have, but I was so lonely at that point, I didn't go looking for faults. I made an ass out of myself. So don't think you can make me feel any worse over that incident than I already do."

"I didn't mean," he said, pausing when she raised a challenging eyebrow.

"Look, I know you're tired. I know you have doubts about us ever getting together. But your jealousy isn't going to win you any brownie points."

"I'm not looking for brownie points," he snapped. Maybe his comment earlier had been uncalled for, but that didn't mean he liked that she'd been hurt. "I didn't know who he was. He could have been one of the guys you're always flirting with."

Sara set her glass down sharply, causing him to look up in time to see her gripping the edge of the counter. He winced when she let go suddenly, the pain it caused her clear. The bruising and swelling on her right arm was noticeable; he could only imagine how bad it was on her left arm, hidden by the sling.

"Grissom. I just got out the hospital. My friend is still there. If you're right, there's a serial killer who wants to cut my head off and drain my blood to paint a crime scene. You'll have to excuse me if dealing with your hang-ups isn't high on my list of priorities right now."

"I'm worried," he finally offered. "This killer's fooled me once. I don't know if you were really a target, or if he's messing with us. I don't know if your safe or not, and that bothers me," he said, staring into his empty glass.

"I understand that. I really do. But do you really think comments like that are helping anything?"

She watched as Grissom stared at his hands. She could tell he was trying to figure out how to respond to her comments. She hadn't meant to be so harsh on him.

"Do you think I sleep with every guy who comes along?"

"Of course not!"

"Do you think I lie? That I hurt people for fun?"

"No," he insisted.

"Then why are you acting like that's what I'm doing? Think about the implications of your comments, Grissom."

"I didn't mean it that way," he said softly.

After a pregnant pause, Sara placed the glasses in the sink before giving him a half-grin. There would be time to talk about this later.

"Are you always that cranky when you're tired? If so, I'm going to switch all your coffee to decaf," she promised. "Come on, bedtime."

"What?"

Sara gave him an incredulous stare before shaking her head in disgust. "Don't even think about it. You're beat. You shouldn't be on the road. Go ahead and get some sleep. You know where the bedroom is."

"I'm not taking your bed. You should be resting."

"I'm wide awake. If the doctor clears me in the morning, I'll be back at work tomorrow night. If I sleep now, I won't be able to get any sleep tomorrow afternoon."

"I'll take the couch," he offered as a compromise.

"Fine," she said with a chuckle, heading into the bedroom to retrieve a blanket and pillow.

"You know, the least you could have done was wait until I had finished my laundry before you told me to stay in here," she quipped, picking up the laundry basket that had been resting by the door. "I guess I'll go do some hand wash."

"Save it for tomorrow. You can use the washer at my place," he said, taking his shoes off. "We can swing by after we leave the hospital."

"Thanks," she said, noticing that Grissom placed his gun within reach on the coffee table. He really did think the killer was after her.

Waiting until he was asleep, she went back to double-check that the door was locked, shivering involuntarily.

* * *

Once again, a ringing phone woke Grissom up. He was momentarily confused when he opened his eyes, but quickly got up when he saw Sara smiling at him as she talked on the phone.

"That's Brass. He's on his way over. There's clean towels in the closet by the bathroom if you want to grab a shower before he gets here."

Grissom nodded, heading to the bathroom quietly. Did he say what he thought he said last night? If so, why didn't Sara seem more upset? Quickly stripping, he stepped into the shower wondering if he had ruined things before they had even started.

He was still in the shower when Brass arrived at Sara's apartment, carrying a box under one arm.

"You didn't have to bring anything," she teased as she let him inside.

"Yeah, I did. Wear this whenever you're outside," he said, opening the box to reveal one of the full bulletproof vests worn by the police. "No arguments."

"Right," she said softly, staring at the vest. Unlike the lighter vests the CSIs normally wore, this model covered more of the trunk, but was too bulky to have the mobility their job required.

"I'm not kidding, Sara. No risks. It looks like Gil was right about Carrasco. Where is he, anyway?"

"In the shower," she replied, noticing the detective's tone of voice. "He was beat. He slept on the couch. You shouldn't have let him drive last night."

"Yeah. Probably. Doubt he would have listened to us, though," he said, playing with his coffee cup. "Look, just be careful. The uniforms watching your place had to noticed he never left last night."

"Nothing happened."

"Sure, but that's not the point. We're talking politics. Reality isn't as important as the perception of reality. If rumors about the two of you get started, the sheriff isn't going care what the truth is."

"What we do – or don't do – on our free time isn't anyone else's business," Sara stated.

"Hey, I don't care what the two of you do. Or don't do. I'm only telling you to be careful," he said, holding up his hands defensively.

"What's up, Jim?" Grissom asked as he padded towards the breakfast bar and coffee. From Sara's defensive posture, he could imagine what the topic of conversation had been. He already knew what Brass thought about older men dating younger women.

"Spent the night on the phone with Bakersfield. Finally got someone to check Carrasco's shoe size. He wears an eleven."

"The boots weren't his," Sara said.

"Yeah. They also got the basic blood panel back," Brass said, pulling a fax out of his pocket.

"His epinephrine levels were through the roof and his acetylcholine levels low," Grissom read.

"Classic hormonal reaction to fear. He was terrified when he died," Sara stated evenly. "Suicides are usually calm."

"So did the real killer force him to commit suicide, or is something else going on?"

"I don't know. I talked to Max's doctor. He thinks he'll be able to answer questions this morning. I'm on my way over to the hospital."

After a quick breakfast, Sara slipped the heavy bulletproof vest on, giving Grissom a smile when he moved to help her get her injured arm through the opening. He grabbed her laundry, an eyebrow raised pointedly at Brass as he draped his free arm around Sara's shoulders on the way out.

The captain kept his comments to himself, taking up position on the other side of Sara. It wasn't likely the killer would try to go after her. If he had gone to the trouble to try and frame Carrasco, he'd probably lay low until they had let their guard down.

He wasn't taking any chances; the killer wasn't exactly stable.

The drive to the hospital was silent, Brass leading the procession, with Grissom and Sara following and her police escort bringing up the rear. Once there, they escorted her to an examination room and waited as the attending physician examined her arm while they waited for the blood work.

Making their way upstairs later, Sara flexed her arm, glad that the doctor had told her she didn't need to sling any longer.

She let out a sad sigh as they stood outside Max's room in ICU. He was still connected to IVs and monitoring equipment. He was pale, the extensive bruising on his arms standing out in stark contrast. When Grissom rubbed his hand reassuringly across her back, she turned to give him a brief smile.

"Dr. Brandenburg is still weak. Keep your questions short. He needs to rest," the physician warned them.

The ICU room was crowded. Brass took the seat beside the bed while Grissom and Sara waited by the door.

"Max. Hey, Max. You awake?" he asked softly.

Brandenburg rolled his head towards the sound, his eyes fluttering open.

"Why am I in the hospital?" he asked after a minute.

"Warfarin poisoning. The killer spiked your carryout."

"Sara?" he asked quickly, trying to lift himself off of the bed.

"Fine," she called from the door, giving him a wave when he turned towards her.

"Hi," he said weakly before dropping back down.

"Max, I'm going to show you some pictures, okay?" Brass said, pulling out a card with six photos arranged in two rows of three. Carrasco's photo was on the bottom-left corner. "Do you recognize any of these guys?"

"No," he said after taking a minute to examine the pictures.

"Do you remember what the delivery guy looked like?"

"Which one?" he chuckled.

"The one who brought the sandwiches to Sara's apartment."

"Kinda short," he said after a few moments. "I think light brown hair. Maybe a dirty blond. Skin was a lot lighter than any of the guys in those photos."

"Do you think you could talk to a sketch artist?" Grissom asked from the doorway.

"Doubt it. Didn't pay much attention to him, you know? I'll try. Later," Brandenburg said, closing his eyes.

"You take it easy, Max," Brass said as he walked to the door. "I'll see to it that an artist comes talk to him this afternoon. O'Riley was arranging for another canvas of your complex. Maybe someone saw something."

Brass nodded to them as he left the room.

"Go ahead," Grissom said, nodding back to the bed. "I'll wait outside."

"Thanks," she said before walking over to take a seat by Max's bed.

"Hey."

"Hi. Again," he smiled weakly. "You really all right?"

"Yeah. Doctor said I can go back to work tonight."

"Why?"

"I wasn't that sick," she said softly.

"No. Why going back to work? Shouldn't," he said sleepily.

"I'm fine."

"Not safe. I have cabin in the mountains. Tennessee. You should go. Can charter you a flight. Killer couldn't follow you."

"I'm not running," she said, running a hand lightly across his arm. "Thanks for the offer."

"Still a rat," he said in a weak voice.

"What?" she asked, moving closer to hear him better.

"Even if you win the rat race, you're still a rat," he said with a wan smile. "Need to learn to relax."

"That's a little hard to do with that guy still out there."

"Plenty of others can catch him," he said, his eyes closing briefly.

"I know. You rest. I'll come visit again tomorrow, okay?"

"Things okay? With your boss?"

"Sure. Why?"

"He's pacing outside," Brandenburg said, pointing towards the window that looked into the room.

"He's worried," she answered vaguely.

"You love him?"

"Max, look, you rest, okay? We'll talk later. I mean it."

"Hot or cold," he said, forcing his eyes open again and turning to give her another smile. "He'll either do everything to make you happy, or he's going to hurt you bad."

She gave him arm another gentle rub as he closed his eyes for the final time. After watching him sleep for a few moments, Sara got up to leave. Max's pained tone had little to do with his injuries she suspected.

Grissom waited until she was outside the room to approach her. Walking down the hallway, he put a discreet distance between them and the police officers.

"Sara," he began hesitantly. "If you want to take some time off, to spend with Max, that's fine."

She looked up to give him a resolute stare.

"I want to get the bastard who did this."

_TBC_


	14. Ch 14

**Cardinality  
****Summary:** A serial killer is stalking the citizens of Las Vegas. Started out as a case file but the G/S aspect demanded equal representation. This is the edited version for ths site. The complete version can be found at my web site.  
**Rating:** R for subject matter  
**A/N**: No real spoilers. Many thanks to Burked for teaching me how to be a serial killer, among many other things.  
**Disclaimer**: Obviously, I don't own anything related to CSI. If I did, certain characters would be getting more screen time – together!

* * *

"_I cannot help it; in spite of myself, infinity torments me."_ – Alfred de Musset

**Chapter 14 **

Grissom opened his fridge, quickly scanning the contents mixed among his experiments, looking for something to offer Sara. When he'd invited her to his home, he hadn't considered that he wasn't prepared to entertain.

He wanted her to feel comfortable in his home, at least enough to consider taking up his offer of the guest room. Instead, he was worried she was angry.

On the ride over from the hospital, they had talked about her medical condition. Grissom tried to convince her to take more time off, pointing out she couldn't go to scenes, and they still had to be careful she wasn't hurt.

Sara hadn't seemed upset with him for restricting her to the lab, but now Grissom wondered if he had been wrong. Ever since they arrived at this townhouse, she'd been quiet. Briefly peeking around the fridge door, he watched as she methodically pretreated a stain on a shirt.

Grabbing the orange juice container, he opened it and took a cautious sniff before wrinkling his nose in disgust. Setting it back on the shelf, Grissom shifted some beakers around, seeing if anything had migrated to the far corners.

The remaining contents weren't promising. There was beer and wine, but considering she was just released from the hospital, alcohol probably wasn't a wise choice. The bottled water was half-drunk.

That left the container of milk. It hadn't been opened yet, so it shouldn't have picked up any odors. Unfortunately, Grissom wasn't sure how strict of a vegetarian she was, and the last thing he wanted was a repeat of the hamburger incident.

Replaying the conversation over in his mind, he couldn't isolate anything that he'd said, or hadn't said, that would have made her upset. Pursing his lips, he peeked around the door again to watch her in the laundry area off of the kitchen.

Grissom shifted the containers around in one last hopeful quest to find something to offer her. As hard as he tried, he couldn't figure out why she would be upset.

_Was she worried about Max? Is she thinking about him? Would she rather be with him? _

Grissom let out a long breath as he closed the fridge door. Of course she'd be concerned; the mathematician was her friend. Casting another glance in the direction of the laundry area, he wondered how Sara classified him.

Their relationship had been damaged over time, and he couldn't repair it overnight. It was going to take a while for Sara to regain faith in him again. They needed their old level of trust before things could move forward.

If they moved forward. As much as Grissom wanted to be with Sara, he knew that if it didn't work out he'd be heartbroken. That was a pain he'd only felt superficially when she'd taken up with the paramedic; that experience was enough to make him gun-shy of further hurt. And apparently he had hurt Sara again, but he had no idea how.

Grissom let out a disgusted sigh as his confusion turned to frustration. He'd turned a simple drink offering into a full-blown production. He knew he wasn't the most socially skilled person, but he'd never had problems with having a guest in his house before.

He set a pot of water on the stove, then got a pitcher and some tea bags from the cupboard. Turning to look at Sara, a concerned frown crossed his features as he quickly closed the distance between them. She was still working on the same stain, completely lost in thought. Whatever was wrong, it was more than her being upset with him.

"Hey," he said softly, placing a hand gently on her shoulder, causing her to start. "Sorry. You okay?"

"Yeah," she said sheepishly. "Just got distracted."

"I'll take care of this."

"That's okay," she said, giving him an embarrassed smile as she dumped the rest of the load into the machine.

"You can trust me with clothes. I've been doing my own laundry for … well, a long time," Grissom said, stopping himself before he pointed out that he'd been doing wash since before she was born.

"Grissom, it's all right. Don't go to any more trouble. I can handle this."

"You're my friend. This hasn't been any trouble," he said lowly.

"Thanks. I didn't mean to zone out on you," Sara said, slipping passed him to enter the kitchen area.

Grissom followed, a puzzled look on his face. Something was bothering her; she'd been embarrassed that he'd caught her lost in thought.

"I'm making some iced tea. If you want, I can make some coffee. Or I can run out to the market and pick up some juice or soda."

"Tea's fine," she said, tilting her head as she leaned against the counter.

"Do you want something to eat? I can make you a sandwich, or…"

"Stop," she said softly. Giving her head a slight shake, she walked over to him, surprising him by stroking his arm lightly. "You're trying too hard."

Grissom looked away, feeling chagrined. While he'd been with women before, he'd never been in love with any of them. Most people worked through the awkwardness of their first love when they were teenagers: a time when embarrassment was ubiquitous.

"Hey."

Hearing her concern, Grissom caught her gaze, shrugging slightly.

"You okay?"

"I'm sorry."

"Why?" Sara asked, clearly confused.

"For making you upset?" Grissom offered, wondering if he'd just embarrassed himself again.

"I'm not angry," she said with a fleeting smile. "Relax."

"Is everything okay? Something's bothering you."

"It's stupid. Don't worry about it." Sara walked to the stove. Turning off the burner, she took the boiling water and poured it over the tea bags.

"Well, it's too late for that," he quipped, hoping to lighten the mood. Stepping closer, he placed his hands tentatively on her shoulders. "Does it have to do with this case?"

"Like I said, it's stupid. When I saw your bugs," she said, pointing to a wall-mounted display, "I realized that I was scheduled to be off for a couple of days. If, uh, if the killer had been successful, it would have been days before anyone realized something had happened. Definitely would have been bug food by the time anyone noticed. I guess that bothers me."

Grissom moved his hands lightly across her shoulders. He could feel the tension in her muscles, but he resisted the urge to massage the tightness out. She'd still be too sore.

"Sorry. It's weird."

"I can understand. The same's true for me. If anything ever happened to me, no one would notice until I was missing at work," Grissom said softly, noticing that she still seemed tired. When she didn't answer, he took another step towards her, leaning in close to her ear.

"Would you like to go to bed?"

Sara turned to stare at him, an eyebrow raised questioningly as Grissom dropped his hands to her waist.

"I mean, why don't you get some sleep? You need to rest. I'll finish up your laundry."

"No, thanks," she said, flashing him a grin. "If I take a nap now, I'll never get back to sleep when I get back to my place."

"You don't have to go, Sara. Stay here. You need a ride into work anyway," he urged.

"Grissom, I can catch a ride with the escort out there. You don't have to go to any trouble."

"This isn't any trouble. I want you to stay," he said softly.

"The police will notice. They had to know you spent the night at my apartment."

"Does that bother you?" he asked with a baffled expression. Sara was the last person he thought would be worried that others knew about their budding relationship.

"No. But I have a feeling it'll bother you."

"Like you said, they would've noticed last night. If anyone's going to talk, they already have all the ammunition they need," he said with a shrug.

"And that doesn't bother you?"

"I can't change what's happened. And I'd feel better if you weren't alone."

Sara leaned forward to place a quick kiss to his cheek before moving away to fish out the tea bags. "Thanks. That means a lot to me, but I was serious before. I'm not going to let this guy get to me."

"If you change your mind, let me know," he said, a happy grin forming despite the fact she wasn't going to stay. Grabbing glasses and a bag of pretzels, he led Sara into the living room, where they settled down to watch a documentary on the history of wooden sailing ships.

He chuckled lightly when he realized she'd fallen asleep on the couch later that afternoon. Heading to his bedroom, he pulled the covers down on his bed. Back at the couch, he carefully picked her up, being careful to avoid her injured arm.

Once he had her settled on the bed, he slid down to take off her shoes and socks. Grissom paused as he saw the swelling and bruising. He knew the warfarin would affect her entire body, but seeing the extent of her injuries was jarring.

"Pretty ugly, I know."

"Sorry," he said, moving back up the bed. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"'Sokay," she said sleepily.

"Go back to sleep," Grissom insisted, leaning forward to place a chaste kiss on her lips. Pulling back, he smiled as he watched her resting in his bed, wondering how many times he'd dreamt of finding her like this.

Unable to help himself, he leaned forward for another kiss, allowing this one to linger. When Sara slipped her arm around his neck, he deepened the kiss, not breaking off until she moved her hand to chest.

"I didn't mean to rush you."

"It's not that," she said, looking away self-consciously. "I'm pretty much one big bruise. It's pretty disgusting looking. Believe me, that would have been a turn off."

Grissom brushed a lock of hair, tucking it behind her ear. "I doubt that," he whispered. "'Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind; And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.'"

"Shakespeare? Well, he never saw someone with warfarin poisoning before."

"No, but he would have seen someone with the plague or leprosy. That has to be worse," he teased, moving to take a t-shirt from his dresser. "Here. Go ahead and change, then go back to sleep."

"This isn't your guest room," she realized when he handed her the shirt.

"No. You sleep here. I'll take the other room," he said, not mentioning it was doubling as a storage area for his old journals and research projects.

"You don't have to do that. We're both adults, Grissom. Stay with me," she said shyly. "I'd like that."

"Of course."

Grissom left the room, closing the door behind him. Walking back to the laundry room, he checked on her clothes in the dryer, wondering about her request. Had she recognized the significance of the quote? He hadn't openly admitted the depth of his feelings to her, but the quotation summed them up.

After the laundry was finished, he slipped back into the room. Undressing quickly, he slid under the covers, curling up behind Sara. He watched her sleep for a while before wrapping an arm around her waist, smiling when she moved back against him.

* * *

Grissom walked into the break room, giving Sara a shy smile as he passed. There had been a moment's awkwardness when they woke up earlier, spooned together in his bed, but it passed quickly as they settled into the routine of getting ready for work.

Despite his lingering concerns about starting a relationship, he had to admit there had been a simple joy in joking as they washed up the dinner dishes. It was a facet of life he'd never experienced like this, and one he wanted to explore in more detail.

When they arrived at the lab, Sara had been swarmed by the rest of the team, everyone glad to see her. Grissom had left her to greet her friends, joking with Nick and Warrick, and making Greg blush deeply by thanking him for doing her grocery shopping with a kiss on the cheek.

Grabbing some coffee, he took a seat at the table, waiting a moment for the others to settle down. "What did you find?" he asked, turning to look at Catherine.

"Okay, you saw the report from Bakersfield? Carrasco was terrified when he died."

"Which means it probably wasn't a suicide," Grissom nodded.

"Yeah. I went over the photos. If that shot was rigged, I don't see how it was done. There are no voids in the blood spatter."

"So the killer forced Carrasco to kill himself?" Greg asked in confusion.

"Worse ways to go than a bullet to the head," Nick said. "Could have threatened to torture him first, or made it a slow death."

"Why though? I mean, the guy didn't wear the same size shoes. The DNA wouldn't match what we lifted from the scenes," Greg continued.

"As far as the killer knows, we may only have the brush as evidence. He may not know enough about forensics to know what type of other evidence he left behind. The killer didn't take any precautions to remove his shoe prints," Grissom pointed out.

"I talked to the trooper that found the car," Warrick added. "It was down in a gully, hidden behind some brush. He saw a lot of carrion eaters in the area and got suspicious. The windows had all been opened. I'm guessin' the killer thought Carrasco would have been pretty much eaten before the body was found. Wouldn't have been enough of him left to notice the shoe sizes were different."

"What else?" Grissom asked.

"We went back over his house. There was a box of old lyrics in a box under the bed. His old band members verify Carrasco wrote them. QD compared it to the writing from the crime scenes. Not done by the same guy," Catherine said.

"I talked to Archie. He went over the photos of, errr, uhm, that we found at the house," Nick sputtered.

"It's okay, Nick," Sara said softly.

"Yeah. Well, all he can tell us was the camera wasn't the best. The resolution on the pictures isn't that great. We went over the picture that was taken in front of the lab. We can't tell what kind of zoom he used, so we can't pinpoint how far away he was. From the angle, we were able to make out he was in the parking lot."

"Do you remember anyone hanging around?" Grissom asked her.

Sara shook her head, and reached for the photos, flipping through them.

"Same deal with the shot of you at your apartment complex. We can figure out the direction it was taken, but not the exact distance."

"Trace examined those fibers we found in victim at the theater," Catherine continued. "Doc was right. It is fleece. The dye places it as a Hanes sweatshirt. You could pick one up anywhere."

"Brass sent a sketch artist to talk to Max. They couldn't come up with much. He didn't pay that much attention to him," Nick said. "All he really remembers was the guy's short. Which makes sense considering how small of a shoe he wears."

"They still have protection on Max, right?" The others turned to watch Sara, who was pointing to the photos. "He was with me when all these pictures were taken. The one in front of the lab – that was the morning I gave him a ride home."

"The killer must have followed us to the lab from the theater," Greg said. "I didn't notice anything."

"Why would you?" she asked kindly. "You had no reason to think someone would be following you. He either cropped the shots or framed them so you can't see Max, but we were together in each location."

"Do you remember where you were? We can figure out the direction the killer was when he took the shots," Grissom said. "There's a chance there's still some evidence."

"This is the Rosemont Shopping Center," Sara said, holding up the photo of her leaving the video store, then moving to the shot of the park bench. "That's the park on Inglenook. We were between the playground and the pond. It was the bench with a damaged armrest. The gas station is the Texaco down the street."

"Warrick, grab Archie and see if you can figure out where those shots were taken from."

"I'm on it," he said, giving Sara a smile as he left.

"So, was the killer really after Max or not?" Catherine wondered, stirring her coffee idly.

"I'm not sure he was after either of them," Grissom said. "He knew we had evidence after he lost the brush at the drive-in."

"You think he framed Carrasco to throw us off his trail?" Sara asked, setting the photos down.

"It's possible. He went to a lot of trouble to implicate him. He left the clues about Sara to shake us up. I think Warrick was right; he didn't expect Carrasco's body to be found so soon, and he thought we would use the planted evidence to close the case."

"What now?"

"I don't know. If he went to this much trouble to frame Carrasco, he'll probably lie low for the time being, but there's no guarantee about that. I wanted to issue a warning about carryout food, but the sheriff wouldn't allow it," Grissom said in disgust.

"Yeah, well, considering how important tourism is to the city, I can see why," Catherine offered.

"And we don't know he killed the others with carryout. I mean, it doesn't make any sense," Sara said.

"What makes you say that?" Grissom asked.

"Okay, you order carryout. You don't think anything about opening the door to take it from the delivery guy. You don't think anything about eating it. But what about when the killer returns? Who's going to let in a delivery guy when they haven't ordered anything?"

Grissom gave a resigned nod. "That's true. And if we're right that he targeted you and Max to throw us off his trail, he could have used a different MO to confuse us more."

"That still doesn't help us figure out how he picked the victims," Catherine sighed.

"Janice Wilcox. Paralegal in a firm downtown. Lives in Henderson. Ian Price. Electrician. Works for a defense contractor at Nellis. Gary Galicki. Dentist, lives on the east side of the city. What do they have in common?" Sara asked, waiting until her colleagues shook their heads.

"Janice used to live in my apartment building. I gave her rides to the gym when her car was in the shop. Ian used to work for my parents when I was a kid. They told me he was transferred out here last year. Galicki is my dentist."

"And until we know you're the connection, there'd be no way to link them together," Grissom said. "You're thinking the killer knows the victims?"

"At least well enough that they'd take poisoned food or drink from him. And to let him in later."

"Makes sense," Catherine said. "He knows enough about them to know when they'd be alone, so he can kill them."

"Okay. Sara, get Brass to get you the list of all of their co-workers and Smith's classmates. Compare it to Wallace's client list, phone records, anything you can find."

"Did you get a chance to look at my bugs?" Catherine asked him.

"Yeah. They're still maturing, but by the beetles present, he's been dead at least three weeks."

* * *

Brass found Grissom in the break room, eating lunch with Catherine and Sara. Nodding to the three CSIs, he walked over to the coffee machine. "O'Riley may have figured out how Carrasco links into this," he said, taking a chair at the end of the table.

"He found a kid, Eric Stills, who lives in another building in your complex. He works at a pizza place. The day you were poisoned, he came home from work about an hour before you ordered your carryout. He had brought lunch home with him. As Stills was crossing the parking lot, a guy approached him. Asked him if that was his order and offered to pay for it there."

"Did he mention my apartment?"

"Kid doesn't remember what number he said. Wasn't paying that much attention to him. When Stills said the food was his, the guy slipped back into the parking lot."

"You think it was the killer?" Catherine asked. "Would he assume they'd be ordering carryout?"

"If he was following Max, it would make sense," Sara offered. "He never cooks. If he doesn't eat at a restaurant, he gets carryout. And he eats about five meals a day."

"So when Carrasco came with your order, the real killer sidetracked him. He takes your food and poisoned it, and brought it up to you. But what about Carrasco? There was no sign of injuries on him. How did the killer keep him from escaping?" Grissom asked.

"Drugs? Was he handcuffed? Did the killer bribe him?" Sara ventured.

"Did this Stills kid say anything else?" Grissom asked, turning to face Brass.

"He's talking to the sketch artist now. Thought you might want to talk to him yourself."

"Thanks, Jim," Grissom said as he and Sara left the room.

Brass chuckled as he checked their sandwiches. "Both of them brought cucumber sandwiches with cream cheese. And a container of sliced fruit. What a coincidence."

"I noticed."

"Gil spent the night at her apartment, and she spent the day at his place," he said, leaning over the table to talk to Catherine quietly.

"You don't approve?"

"Not my place to say. Hey," he said, holding out his hands. "I think they're cute together. And Gil will have his hands full with her."

"I didn't need that visual."

"Sorry," he chuckled. "I'm just worried for them. You know Gil doesn't have much political sense, and Sara's too independent to care. I don't want the sheriff making trouble for them."

"And cucumber sandwiches will get them in trouble?"

"No, but when Sara has a police escort following her, they tend to notice when two people are together. It's going to start rumors. This new sheriff, I don't know if he'll be cool with a supervisor openly seeing one of his employees."

"I'll talk to Gil later," Catherine promised.

"You don't seem surprised by this development."

"It's not really a development."

"Seriously?"

"Yep."

"Catherine, I think you've left me out of the loop for too long," he said in mock-anger.

"Hey, you're the big shot detective. I can't help it if you're blind," she teased.

* * *

"You want to get breakfast?" Grissom asked as he leaned against the lighted table in the Layout Room, standing as close to Sara as he could without interfering with her work.

"I need to head to the hospital. Should be the last day of blood tests and shots," she said.

"And you're going to see Max," he stated evenly.

"Yeah."

"Tell him hello."

Sara turned her head to look at Grissom closely. A slight facial tic was the only sign he wasn't happy. "I need to talk to him. To let him know, well, not to get his hopes up."

"You're breaking up with him?" he asked, trying not to sound hopeful.

"We weren't really together to break up, Grissom."

"Oh. Does this mean we're … an item?" he asked delicately.

"No," she said, flashing him a toothy grin. "Don't worry. I'm not pressuring you. We can move as slow as you want, take as long as you need, as long as you are serious."

"I am," he admitted.

"Good."

"Do you need to do some more laundry?" he asked, lifting his eyebrows playfully.

"You liked that, did you?"

"Very much."

"So did I. But I think I'll want some time alone today."

"Okay," he said softly. "Did you find anything?"

"No. I've cross-referenced all the contacts in Wallace's computer with the class and employee lists. Nothing in common yet. I'll add the numbers from their phone records later. How about you?"

"I went to the area Stills said the guy approached him. I couldn't find anything."

"Not surprised. After this much time, with all the traffic that goes through there," she said, giving him a friendly smile.

"I'll try again when the sun's up."

"Hey, don't pull another stunt like before, okay? Promise me you'll get some sleep today."

"I promise, but I think I should be telling you that," he teased as he pushed off the table. "Call me later, if you need talk, okay?"

"Sure."

* * *

Sara smiled as she entered the hospital room, seeing Max eagerly attacking the tray of food in front of him. His condition had upgraded enough they had moved him to a regular ward.

"Taste good?"

"It's absolutely hideous," he answered, giving her a smile. "But I'm hungry enough not to care."

"Glad you're feeling better," she said, pulling a chair up beside his bed, and fidgeting with her hands.

"Why do I get the feeling I'm not going to like this conversation?" he asked, pushing the tray aside so he could lay his hand over hers.

"I'm sorry, Max. You're a great guy, but this wouldn't be fair to you."

"I thought you weren't involved with him," he said, a trace of irritation in his voice.

"We weren't. We still aren't, yet. We're working on it. I wasn't using you, believe me. It's complicated."

"I'm not going anywhere."

Sara sank into the chair slowly, resting her hand over his arm lightly. "I've been in love with him for a long time. I thought he felt the same way, but then things sort of fell apart."

"Then you showed an interest in someone else."

"It's more than that. He had some personal things going on in his life that I didn't know about. It helped to explain a lot of what's been going on. I don't know if things are going to work between us, but I've got to try."

"I understand. You need to get it out of your system. If you never tried, you'd always wonder if you made a mistake," Brandenburg said with a sigh.

"Something like that. But I'm hoping it works out. This isn't a fad, not on my part."

"I hope it does, too," he said grudgingly.

"Max," she said softly, running her hand over his kindly. "You're something special. If I wasn't already in love with Grissom, I think I could have fallen for you easily."

"Yeah, well, that's the catch, isn't it?"

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"Don't be," he said, letting out a long breath. "You can't help how you feel. If you don't mind, this probably isn't a good time to be around me. I want you to be happy, but that doesn't mean I'm not going to say something stupid."

"Sure. Look, call me if you need anything. I can bring you in some real food if you want."

"Maybe later."

"Bye," she said, giving his hand a last squeeze before she left. Pausing at the door, she watched as he stared out the window, the rest of his meal ignored.

* * *

Sara stopped in Grissom's office that evening after depositing the bulky vest in her locker. Taking a seat across from his desk, she studied the various items on his shelves.

"Did everything go okay?" he asked quietly. When she shrugged, he took his glasses off, his tongue peeking out from his pursed lips. They had talked briefly that afternoon; he was certain she'd called merely for his benefit.

"Are you okay?" Again, she shrugged.

Before he could ask another question, both of their pagers went off. Heading towards the DNA lab, they saw Catherine heading their way.

Greg was pacing the room when they entered, a printout in his hand.

"What's up?" Catherine asked.

"I got a hit on CODIS from your DB," he exclaimed. "It's a match to the blood from the first crime scene. He's the signature killer's first victim."

_TBC_


	15. Ch 15

**Cardinality  
****Summary:** A serial killer is stalking the citizens of Las Vegas. Started out as a case file but the G/S aspect demanded equal representation. This is the edited version for this site. The complete version can be found at my web site.  
**Rating:** R for subject matter  
**A/N**: No real spoilers. Many thanks to Burked for teaching me how to be a serial killer, among many other things.  
**Disclaimer**: Obviously, I don't own anything related to CSI. If I did, certain characters would be getting more screen time – together!

* * *

"_I cannot help it; in spite of myself, infinity torments me."_ – Alfred de Musset

**Chapter 15 **

Catherine barreled down the hallway heading to the evidence vault. Grabbing Warrick on the way, she directed Nick towards the Layout Room, where Greg, Grissom and Sara were headed.

"Where's the fire?" Nick joked as he entered the room.

"Cath's DB from Sandy Valley was the signature killer's first victim. Got a DNA match to the blood used to write the equations at the second victim's apartment," Sara explained.

"Hot damn!"

"Don't get your hopes up," Grissom cautioned. "The killer has been very careful so far. There's no guarantee this victim will give us any useful evidence."

"Yeah, but each victim gives us more to work with. I want to get this guy before he hurts anyone else," Nick said, darting his eyes towards Sara.

"The killer went to a lot of trouble to frame Carrasco. We probably have some time before he strikes again."

"Or he moves to another area," she pointed out.

Grissom froze momentarily before turning to watch her closely.

"Sara, I need you to work on the Brownstein case from last night. Check with Trace and Ballistics, see if they've made any headway," Grissom said shortly, nodding towards the door. "Go. I need your help with this."

She gave him a confused look but left without complaint, sharing a shrug with Nick on the way out.

"I talked to Archie earlier. That Stills kid couldn't remember much about the guy who approached him in the parking lot," Nick continued.

"Eyewitnesses rarely do."

"Only things both he and Max noticed was the guy wasn't very big and had brownish hair. Archie's going through all the pics and TV film from the crime scenes. He's pulling together a collection of shots that might be the killer. Maybe Max will recognize him."

"Good," Grissom said, turning to look as Catherine and Warrick came in with boxes of evidence. "You said there was writing on a blackboard. Let's see the pictures."

"Yeah, here," she said, passing over a folder of photographs. "Weird shit. The trooper said the victim had been studying all kinds of alternate philosophies."

"What do you know about the vic?" Warrick asked.

"Vince Morabito, eighty seven, single. Had a terminal heart condition. When he missed his rent payment, the landlord asked the police to check on him. Someone had gone through his house, and his van's missing."

"What kind?"

"Sky-blue Ford Econovan."

"Witnesses said there was a white or gray van at the drive-in theater around the time of the murder there. At night, a light blue van could be confused for gray," Warrick said.

"Did that kid from Sara's apartment say anything about seeing a van in the parking lot?" Greg asked, looking puzzled when Warrick and Nick shook their heads at him.

"They're everywhere. Forget the number of people who use them for personal transportation. Electricians, plumbers, the phone company, cable company, florists – they all use vans. It would be surprising if there wasn't a couple at an apartment complex," Catherine explained.

"That was one of the problems during the DC sniper case last year," Grissom added. "When they were looking for a white van – there were more than ten thousand registered in that area alone."

"Not to mention that was bad information," Warrick joked. "We have anything about cause of death?"

"I'm supposed to see Doc in a few minutes. I don't know what he'll be able to tell us. The guy was mush by the time he was found," Catherine said.

"No one noticed he was missing?" Grissom asked.

"Nope. No friends. No close family. According to the cop who found him, he had a reputation as a firebrand. He was always starting fights."

"Sounds like he pissed off the wrong guy," Nick said, picking up one of the photos that showed the collection of symbols on the blackboard. "This some sort of math?"

"None that I've ever seen, but this killer's been using some unusual stuff," he said, examining the photo.

"Want me to grab Sara?"

"No," Grissom stated, peering at Nick over his glasses. "It doesn't look like astrological symbols, either."

"Huh?"

Grissom smiled at the younger man as he pointed to a bagged card Catherine was holding.

"Tarot. It has the same roots as astrology. Both use their own symbols. Jung considered the tarot to be a pictorial representation of human archetypes," he said, taking the card. "The Magician. Represents the messenger. The act of creation. Manipulation of reality. Shaping the physical world to the will."

"Uh-huh," the Texan replied, giving him a suspicious look.

"I had a case back in LA where a guy was killing fortune tellers. Placed a different tarot card at each crime scene. We went crazy trying to figure out the meaning of the cards he left. Turns out it was a jilted lover who killed his boyfriend. Murdered the others to try and make it look like a serial killer."

"Guess they didn't see him coming," Nick deadpanned.

"The cup, sword, wand and disk." The others turned to Grissom who was staring at the bagged card. "The Magician's tools."

"You think it's symbolic?" Warrick asked.

"The killer may see himself as the Magician. The blade the killer's using could be the sword, the brush his wand. He's collecting the blood in something. That could be the cup. No idea what the disk would be."

"So is he the messenger, or is he trying to create something?" Warrick asked.

"The Magician also represents the trickster, the con artist," Grissom stated. "This could be another false clue."

"That's assuming the killer left it," Catherine pointed out. "The trooper said the vic had stuff like this up all the time."

"Prints?" Grissom asked.

"Two sets were lifted from the card and the blackboard. One matches the killer, but there wasn't enough of the victim left to print. We're still trying to establish his prints from personal items."

"Anything else?"

"Archie and I went over the places where the photos of Sara had been taken. We got lucky at the park. I found shoeprints and a soda bottle there. The prints are consistent with the ones we found on the catwalk at the drive-in," Warrick added.

"I've swabbed the bottle for DNA. It's replicating now. I'll let you know when I get something. I sent the bottle to Jacqui to print," Greg added.

"I haven't talked to her yet today," Warrick said. "They had a backlog. I don't know if she's had a chance to run it or not."

"Warrick, go check with her. Nick, take a copy of the writing from the blackboard to Ronnie in QD. When you get done, I want the two of you to handle tonight's cases. It's pretty light. Let's go see what Doc has to say," Grissom said to Catherine as he escorted her out of the room.

* * *

"Hello, Sara," David said, giving her a bashful smile when she walked in the morgue. "Hope you're feeling better."

"Yeah, I am. Thanks for the flowers. That was really sweet," she said, flashing him a grin as she moved to join the others around the skeleton on the slab in the center of the room.

"You're welcome," he replied shyly, moving away when Grissom fixed him with a harsh stare as he moved to stand close beside Sara.

"Good to have you back, Sara. Afraid I'm not going to be able to tell you a lot about Mr. Morabito. There wasn't much of him left to examine. Between rotting and the bugs, most of the soft tissue was missing or had degraded too much to be useful," Robbins said kindly.

Grissom snapped a quick look at Sara, noticing that she wrapped her arms a little tighter around herself. A wave of protectiveness washed over him. He recalled her comments from the day before, about how the thought of no one finding her for days and being consumed by bugs had disturbed her.

Now she was faced with a victim from the same attacker who had been dead for weeks before anyone noticed. That had to have a chilling effect on her. Trying to figure out the emotional impact cases were having on his CSIs was always difficult, even without trying to balance a personal relationship with one of them.

Grissom watched her carefully. She was doing a good job of maintaining her control. Maybe he was the one overreacting, trying to shield her from a nonexistent problem.

More than their budding relationship, though, he worried about her personally. She shouldn't be here; in fact, she couldn't be. Once she became a victim, she couldn't handle evidence from the case without compromising it. Technically, she shouldn't even be in the same room when the case was being discussed.

This was a Gordian knot of his own creation. He'd let her continue working on finding a connection between the victims yesterday without considering she had to be taken off the case. He should have assigned her to something else immediately; now he had to deal with that mistake.

At least her work didn't involve handling any of the collected evidence; nothing would have to be discarded. Although she had seen the photos, that was part of the investigation. She was helping them pinpoint where the shots had been taken.

Knowing she wouldn't appreciate any comments in front of the others, he made a mental note to talk to her later. Resisting the urge to wrap an arm around her, Grissom settled for giving her a brief smile and shifting slightly closer to her.

Robbins and Catherine exchanged a surprised smile as they caught the move. "Did the bugs tell you much?" the blonde asked him.

"Nothing definitive yet. We know he was dead at least three weeks by the beetles. Since his blood hadn't been frozen and hadn't spoiled before it was used to write the equations in Wallace's apartment, we know it had to have been within a month of that killing."

"We already know he had been given warfarin," Catherine sighed.

"That's where things get interesting. His medical records arrived today. Mr. Morabito had a prescription for warfarin," the doctor said.

"Did you find any bottles at his place?" Grissom asked her quickly.

"I don't remember seeing any there. I'll go back and double-check."

"Well, it's not likely it's the source the killer's been using. Morabito was on a very low dosage. There weren't any refills left on this prescription. There wouldn't have been enough to poison all the victims," Robbins added.

"Tox screen tell you anything?"

"I'll send tissue samples to them, but given the state of decomposition, I wouldn't hold out much hope that they'll find anything useful."

"Catherine, go ahead and recheck this guy's house. See if he has any math books, journals, anything that might tie into the later scenes. Bring back anything that might be useful. And get a hold of that trooper. We'll need to talk to him."

"Right," she said, nodding to the others as she left the room.

"We're still working with a two-week time frame," Sara said, curious about Grissom's sudden protective stance around her. Looking around the table, she noticed the others had observed his behavior as well. Hoping she wasn't blushing, she turned to the coroner. "Any clues about cause of death?"

"The skeleton's relatively intact. There's normal wear-and-tear for someone his age. No sign of a blow to the head. Any other injuries weren't severe enough to leave a mark on the bones. Greg found his blood in the turkey baster, right?"

"Yes."

"Well, if the killer used the baster to suck his blood out of his chest, he did it without leaving any evidence on the rib cage. Without the body tissue, I can't tell you much more."

"Thanks, Al," he said, gently placing his hand on the small of Sara's back to direct her towards the door.

"Sara, remember, no activities that'll cause bruising for a few days," the coroner quipped.

"Yeah, the doctor warned me about that," she muttered, casting an evil glare in his direction as she exited the room.

Walking beside Grissom as they headed back upstairs, she tried to judge his mood, hoping Robbin's joke hadn't embarrassed him. When he directed her to his office, she felt a moment's concern when he closed the door behind him.

Crossing the room, he sat heavily in his chair, but stared at his desk, picking up a pen and absentmindedly tapping it on a file.

"Trace is still working on those fragments. Bobby checked the gun found in the car. It wasn't the one used in the shootings," she said.

"Thanks."

"Hey," she said softly when he remained quiet for a long moment.

"I thought you were cleared to return to work," he stated in an odd tone.

"I was. That thing in the morgue. Uh, you know, Doc was making a joke. That we, uh, that I, well, shouldn't engage in, um, certain physical activities."

"Oh."

Sara's confusion increased as she watched him. She expected him to be embarrassed that the coroner had cracked a joke about their potential sexual exploits. Instead, he seemed almost disappointed. Unable to find a reason why he suddenly didn't want her at work, she took a more direct approach.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," he said, giving her an embarrassed smile.

"Then what's bothering you?"

"I'm not sure what to do," he said, letting out a long breath and resuming his nervous tapping with the pen.

"About?" she asked quietly.

"Work. Us. This."

Sara stared at him, an occasional eye blink her only motion, wondering if he had already decided that their involvement was a mistake. Doc's joke had been embarrassing, but had it been enough for him to question their relationship?

The fact he wouldn't look her in the eye wasn't helping her nerves. She felt a stab of pain as she considered her earlier fears – he was only showing an interest so she'd dump Max, that he wouldn't be willing to take the risks involved.

Giving her head a shake, Sara pushed that feeling down. He'd been too caring, too concerned to have done something that callous. Something else had to be bothering him.

Hopefully.

"What's the problem?" she asked, trying to keep her voice calm, hoping she could get him to talk about whatever was on his mind.

"Your behavior," he said in a very soft voice.

Sara frowned as she tried to read his expression, but had no luck since he'd turned to face away from her.

"I don't understand."

"What were you doing in the morgue?" he asked, finally turning to fix her with a questioning look. "You know you can't work this case anymore."

"I wasn't handling any evidence," she answered in a confused tone of voice.

"That's a technicality, and you know it," he said shortly.

"Excuse me?"

"Do you want this case thrown out? If a defense attorney finds out a victim was processing the evidence, you know no judge would ever allow it to be entered. What happens then? The killer would be free, and there wouldn't be a damn thing we could do about it."

Sara raised her eyebrows in understanding, although he had turned away from her again to stare at his shelves. He was worried about her, being overprotective.

"You're overreacting. I didn't handle any of the evidence," she repeated softly. "I'm not going to compromise this or any other case."

"No, you're not," he stated emphatically. "That's why you need to follow the rules. I can't make exceptions for you."

"You can't make exceptions," she sputtered, staring at him in surprise. "I think you better explain that."

"What's to explain? The rules are clear."

"The departmental rules are clear," she said, picking at her armrest. "It's your interpretation of them that baffles me."

When Grissom turned back to stare at her in confusion, she let out a ragged breath. He really didn't get it.

"About a year ago, Cath was working a murder scene and the perp was still in the house. He attacked her. She became a victim, but you didn't pull her from the case then."

"That wasn't the same," Grissom said.

Sara narrowed her eyes, feeling her temper rise. From his expression, she could tell even he didn't believe his own defense.

"Okay. Fine. That time wasn't the same. What about the time Eddie was charged with rape? Oh, wait. You did tell Cath not to work that case. Of course, you didn't do anything when she disobeyed you and refused to hand over the case to Warrick."

Grissom shifted uncomfortably in his seat, turning back to examine his shelves again as he ran his hand over his beard.

"And let's not forget when Eddie was killed and Linds nearly died. You sure as hell didn't say anything when she interfered with my investigation."

At that statement, he turned around to watch her closely. "I didn't know about that. You should have said something at the time."

Sara let out a disgusted sigh at his continued avoidance of the issue. The double standard didn't just apply to Catherine. He had let Warrick investigate the murder of a former mentor's daughter. That involvement caused the man to be jailed.

Even Grissom wasn't in a position to complain.

"As I remember, you were a little busy at the time getting personally involved in a case yourself."

Grissom blushed slightly as he recalled that was the same time Lady Heather was under investigation for murder. The hypocrisy of his concern over Sara's involvement in this case when he'd slept with a suspect wasn't lost on him.

But the thought that the monster than had nearly killed Sara could be freed due to a stupid mistake angered him. He didn't care about the way it would make the lab look, but because of the danger it would pose to Sara.

Seeing her hurt expression, he took a deep breath to calm himself down as he tried to find a way to explain his seemingly contrary positions. A knock caused both of them to turn nervously towards the door.

"Hey, sorry to interrupt. Ronnie said the writing on the blackboard definitely does not belong to the killer. Completely different from the writing at the other crime scenes. Jacqui couldn't find any usable prints on the bottle. Looks like the guy was wearing gloves again."

"Thanks, Nick," Grissom said, frowning when the younger man gave Sara a worried look before leaving.

"Can I go in the field to work on other cases?" Sara asked abruptly.

"Of course not. The killer could still be targeting you."

"Then what exactly am I supposed to work on?"

"You can work the evidence once it's in the lab. There's plenty of paperwork that could be done."

"Lucky me," she said sarcastically.

"Sara, please," he said, failing to keep the hurt from his voice.

"It's all right," she said, fiddling with the material on her chair's armrest.

She knew it would only be a matter of time before they had a problem with keeping their work and personal lives separate. It wasn't a trivial concern; as her supervisor, Grissom was in a delicate position. She let out a sad sigh that it had only taken a day for a problem to arise.

Getting up from the chair, she walked to his desk, holding out her hand for the paperwork. Taking it, she headed out of his office, pausing by the door.

"I understand all of this is hard for you to balance. I'm not going to make it more difficult for you," she offered, waiting for a reply. When none was immediately offered, she tried another tactic.

"I would never compromise a case. I never have. No one else on the team can say that, Grissom."

"I realize that," he said, picking up his pen and starting a new beat on his desk blotter.

"I'm not asking you for special treatment."

"I realize that, also."

"Well, that cuts both ways. I don't want you to make exceptions for me. Hell, I'd get pissed if you did it. But I'm sick of being held to a different standard than everyone else. Try to see this from my point-of-view."

Again, he didn't answer, although she could see Grissom was trying to figure out a response. When he dropped his head into his hands, Sara gave him a sympathetic look.

"Hey, I'm not trying to be difficult. I understand that being my supervisor puts you in a hell of a position," she said kindly, prompting him to look up briefly.

"This isn't a cakewalk for me, either. I'm trying to make it as easy for you as I can. But you can't keep changing the ground rules and expect me to keep up with you. It's … confusing."

Grissom stared at his pen as he processed her statements. By the time he looked up to answer her, the doorway was empty.

_TBC_


	16. Ch 16

**Cardinality  
****Summary:** A serial killer is stalking the citizens of Las Vegas. Started out as a case file but the G/S aspect demanded equal representation. This is the edited version for this site. The complete version can be found at my web site.  
**Rating:** R for subject matter  
**A/N**: No real spoilers. Many thanks to Burked for teaching me how to be a serial killer, among many other things.  
**Disclaimer**: Obviously, I don't own anything related to CSI. If I did, certain characters would be getting more screen time – together!

* * *

"_I cannot help it; in spite of myself, infinity torments me."_ – Alfred de Musset

**Chapter 16 **

Grissom gave Catherine an irritated look when she breezed into the lab later that morning. She raised a curious eyebrow before leaning against the table, watching as he turned his attention back to measuring the bugs in front of him.

"Hey. Went back to mush-man's house. Don't know how that cop could tell the place had been rifled. Guy was a slob."

"Did you waste an entire shift reaching that conclusion?"

Catherine gave him a confused look as he jotted down his measurements in his journal, wondering what was causing his uncharacteristic mood.

"Well, no," she chuckled. "I managed to find his warfarin prescription. It was between the cushions on his couch. I counted how many pills were left. Assuming he never missed a dose, or didn't screw it up, he took the last pill twenty seven days ago."

"What else did you miss the first time through?"

She opened her mouth in surprise, but shut it before her initial response came out. Grissom had been her friend for years; he'd covered for her on a number of occasions. If he needed to vent, she could take a few jabs.

"Hey, as far as I knew he was a DFO. There was nothing to suggest he'd been murdered. It was an elderly man with a terminal heart condition," she said softly.

"Your job is to collect the evidence, Catherine. All of it. Not to make spot judgments. You should have told me about the writing at the crime scene immediately. I can't keep covering up your mistakes," he snapped.

Catherine blinked as her amusement at his mood quickly evaporated.

"Whoa. Did your favorite bug crawl up your ass and die?"

"I'm serious," he shot back, looking up from making notes.

"So am I. What's the deal?" she demanded.

"The deal is I'm the boss. You come to me when you come across potentially case-breaking evidence."

"Hey. Did you recognize any of that writing as math? Or see how it tied in to the signature killer? Then how would have telling you have helped? We still would have had to wait until the DNA results came in to know he had been the first victim."

Grissom glared at her briefly, before setting aside his calipers. Running his hands over his beard, he let out a sigh.

"You should have told me, Catherine. I'm the supervisor. That wasn't your decision to make," he stated firmly.

"Honestly, I was going to call you out on this case because of the bugs. But then I remembered you hadn't slept in days. You were barely coherent. Didn't think it would do any good to have you spread out over the highway," she said hotly.

"You don't have to worry about me. I can do my job. I need you to do your job. All of it, completely and thoroughly," he replied.

"Hey, I think my record speaks for itself."

"Your record practically sings, Catherine, but I wouldn't fall back on it if I were you," he said sarcastically.

Catherine stared at him for a long moment, a pained expression crossing her face.

"That lab explosion was a mistake. You can't hold that against me," she said, hurt that he would throw that back at her.

"I wasn't even thinking about that," he said.

"What are you talking about?" she demanded. When he refused to answer, she moved to stand directly beside him.

"Look, you're not exactly the model of forensics virtue yourself. Who helped you when you got kicked off the Strip Strangler case? I could have had your job then, but I placed our friendship first. Now tell me what the hell is going on. I deserve that much."

"Catherine, you can't keep pushing the limits. Sara told me what happened when she was investigating Eddie's death," he eventually replied.

"I can't believe she bitched to you about that," Catherine said as she started pacing the room. She never suspected Sara would stoop to using her position with Grissom to get revenge. "I was upset. My ex was killed, my daughter nearly died, the killer got away, and she's bitching because I insulted her!"

"Catherine, what the hell are you talking about?"

Hearing his cool tone, she turned to face him. Grissom fixed her with a steely gaze. Despite his outward calm, a facial tic revealed the depth of his anger.

"I was upset. I insulted Sara's skills. What are you talking about?"

"Sara told me that you had interfered with the case. She never 'bitched' about your comments. I can't believe you'd think she'd do that."

"I don't. That's why it surprised me," Catherine insisted.

"I can't believe you even insulted her to begin with."

"I was upset. People say stupid stuff when they're stressed," she said pointedly. When he didn't respond, she moved back to stand beside him. Resting a hand on his shoulder, she let out a ragged breath when she felt his tension. Her own irritation morphed to concern.

She knew Grissom preferred to avoid emotional issues, but he'd been faced with a variety of them recently. Recognizing his discomfort, she gave him a friendly look.

"What's wrong?"

"It's nothing," he muttered.

"Try again."

Grissom twirled the calipers in his hand. Sara's comments from earlier bothered him, not because they had been cruel, but because she was correct. He had let the others get away with more than he should have. Blaming Catherine for taking advantage of that wouldn't help him work things out with Sara.

After a long moment, Grissom turned on the stool to face her. He wasn't apologetic, but he wasn't as angry as he'd been earlier.

"Sara's upset that I pulled her off this case. She thinks I'm treating her differently than the rest of the team. She pointed out the times I've let others work cases where they had a personal involvement."

"Ouch," she said, giving him a sympathetic look. "If you give her the same slack you give the rest of us, you can be accused of favoritism."

"And it's not fair to Sara to make her follow rules the rest of you tend to ignore."

"You know, you have to be careful how you handle this," Catherine said, deciding it was best to ignore his latest jab.

"Oh, trust me, I know," he replied.

"I don't mean with Sara. No one's got a handle on Atwater yet. Keep a low profile until you know how he's going to react."

"Yeah. If that's even something I have to worry about any more," he mumbled.

"Hell, she waited this long for you to make a move. Sara's not going to cut and run on your first offense."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Grissom sighed, avoiding her gaze when she chuckled.

"Find out anything else at the victim's house?" he asked, returning the conversation back to the safe ground of work.

"Brass is talking with the trooper. They've gotten the names of his family. No one lives in the immediate area. Doesn't have much in the way of friends. The victim moved to Nevada sixteen years ago. Up until about seven years ago, he worked part-time as a bookkeeper at a distribution center outside of Ripley."

"Okay. See if any of that ties in with the other victims. I'm going to the hospital later to see if Brandenburg recognizes anyone in the photos."

"I'll tag along. I haven't had a chance to talk to him since he was poisoned," she said, heading towards to the door.

Grissom ran his hand over his temples as he processed the conversation. He had no idea Catherine had insulted Sara. Given their respective personalities, he wasn't surprised. Catherine would have been explosive after the accident, and Sara wasn't the type to let a personal jab interfere with work.

Grissom found himself wondering if there was more going on around the lab that he should know about. He had always knew pursuing a relationship with Sara would complicate his work life, but he had no idea the degree.

He had wanted to talk to her over lunch, but had gotten wrapped up in processing the evidence. By the time he'd noticed he was hungry, she'd already eaten. Turning back to his bugs, Grissom decided to ask her over for breakfast. They would have time to talk before visiting hours started at the hospital.

Despite his best intentions, he didn't break away from the evidence until Brass stopped by to see if he was ready to leave. Stopping by his office, he found the paperwork Sara had completed neatly arranged on his desk.

Grissom closed his eyes briefly as he gathered the folders he needed, wondering how angry Sara was. She hadn't even stopped in to say good-bye before she left.

* * *

Sara entered the hospital room warily, uncertain whether her presence would be welcomed. She flashed Max a nervous smile as she walked over the chair where he sat sipping juice while reading the paper.

"Hey."

Looking up, he reached over to drag the other chair closer to his, giving her a friendly grin in response.

"Good morning, Sara."

"How are you?"

"Physically – much better. I hope they'll let me go home soon. Emotionally – my ego took a beating, but I've been told it's healthy. It'll probably survive."

"I'm sorry," she said contritely.

"Don't be. You can't help how you feel. Besides, it's not like you left me at the altar," he said with a gentle laugh. "Still friends?"

"Yeah," she said, smiling as she finally dropped into the chair. "I'd like that."

"Good. Maybe you could start by telling me the truth," he said, giving her a mock-stern glare as he waved the newspaper. "The paper and the TV news both report the 'Pied Piper' is dead, yet I still have a police guard outside my room. You're still wearing a bulletproof vest. And Jim Brass is coming over later to show me some pictures."

Sara gave him a half-shrug. "Carrasco wasn't the killer," she said quietly. "We think the real killer intercepted him in the parking lot of my apartment complex, poisoned our food, and then forced him to shoot himself."

"And the evidence they found in his house?"

"Planted."

"Frame someone else for the murders so he can get off," Brandenburg said, giving his head a nod. "You don't want the killer to know that he was unsuccessful until after you've caught him. Any chance of that happening soon?"

"I have no idea," Sara muttered angrily. "Got pulled from the case."

"Wouldn't that be normal?" he asked, smiling when she glared at him.

"Yeah, but …, it's nothing."

"Hey, friends, remember? If I were to take a guess, I would say you're having problems with your boss."

"Not problems. Not really," she sighed. "Just trying to figure out how to work together."

"What's the official policy?"

"There really isn't one. As far as I know, this is the first time a supervisor has been involved with an employee at the lab."

"So, there's no rules or guidelines for him to follow. I can see where this could be hard on him. Didn't you say he was socially inept?"

"No," Sara stated, fixing him with an annoyed look "I said he didn't have the best social skills."

"So, you have a complicated situation and a socially inept boss," he said, grinning and giving her a wink. "I don't have to like him. Even in the best of circumstances, when there would be guidelines he could follow, he would have trouble."

"I know that. And why are we talking about this?" Sara asked, feeling a mixture of confusion and annoyance.

"Because I'm your friend. Relax. There's no ulterior motive here. I'm not hoping to stay in the running. If I've learned one thing about you, it's that you're not a quitter. You're not going to give up on him easily."

"No."

"Now, do you want some advice from your friend who isn't socially inept?"

Sara shook her head as Max set aside his newspaper and leaned forward.

* * *

Sara's laughter was the first thing Grissom noticed when they entered the hospital room. He caught a quick glance of the two of them leaning forward in their chairs, Sara's hand resting on the mathematician's arm.

Looking up, Sara pulled back when she saw Grissom's expression, her smile dying away as he stared at her. Brass and Catherine shifted uncomfortably, but Brandenburg merely smiled at his visitors.

"Dr. Grissom," he said cordially.

"Dr. Brandenburg," he replied politely, finally breaking eye contact with Sara.

"Hey, Max. How are you feeling?" Catherine asked, hoping to lighten the mood.

"Much better, thank you. I take it you brought the photos for me to examine?"

"Yeah," Brass said, walking forward with a folder. "Glad you're feeling better."

"Thanks. Hold on, Sara, and stay a minute," he said when she got up to leave. Hopping to the bed, he waved her over to sit beside him. "You were with me that night. You're better at observing people. You may have seen something I missed."

Sara cast a nervous glance to Grissom then back to Max. She had mentioned how difficult it was letting go of the case; was Max trying to include her in a round-about manner? If this was part of his plan to help smooth things over with Grissom, she didn't think much of it.

It was Brass who nodded his assent, moving over to take one of the vacated chairs. Catherine took a seat on the end of the bed, but Grissom remained standing near the far wall, keeping a sharp eye on the mathematician.

For his part, Brandenburg examined each photo carefully before passing them on to Sara. Reaching the end of the pile, he gave the law enforcement officers a shrug. "Sorry."

"Don't worry about it, Max," Brass said.

"If you're not too tired, Dr. Brandenburg, could you examine some other photos for us?"

"Of course, Dr. Grissom. What are they?"

"This came from another crime scene. We're trying to figure out if there's any connection between it and the other victims. The writing is a mixture of symbols, Hebrew letters and a biblical name: Abel."

"Niels," Brandenburg replied immediately, reaching out for the folder.

"I don't remember seeing that in the King James version," Brass quipped.

"Niels Abel was a famous mathematician. He made some remarkable contributions considering he died before he was thirty. He did a lot of work in pure mathematics. Yes."

"What?" Sara asked, darting her eyes to Grissom. Technically, she shouldn't be present for this part of the conversation, but he made no move to ask her to leave. Her supervisor and would-be suitor avoided her look, focusing his attention on the mathematician.

"These symbols here – they're used to designate different types of groups, a mathematical construct. Abelian groups, named after Abel, are a specific type. A lot of these symbols are used in set theory," he said, flipping over to the next photo.

"How does that tie in with the Hebrew letters?" Catherine asked in confusion.

"Where are they?" he asked with a thoughtful expression.

She reached over to flip through the files to hand him a photo, prompting him to smile and nod.

"Cardinality," he replied.

"We talking Catholics or little red birds?" Brass asked.

"Counting," Grissom replied, an eyebrow raised quizzically.

"In a sense. Basically, cardinality refers to the number of members in a set. The cardinality of the letters of the alphabet would be twenty six."

"I hated new math," Brass muttered. "Never could help my daughter with her homework."

Brandenburg gave him an evil grin before continuing.

"The Hebrew letter aleph is used to measure transfinite cardinality. It's a measure of the degree of infinity."

"The degree of infinity?" Catherine asked, giving him doubtful look.

"Yes."

"In English, Max, please," Brass muttered.

"Some infinities are bigger than others. Cardinality measures how big. The numbers in the subscript beside the aleph indicate how big of an infinity you're talking about."

"Some infinities are bigger than others," Brass repeated slowly.

"That's right," Brandenburg said, clearly amused.

"Infinity? As in, as big as you can possibly get?"

"Correct."

"It's as big as you can get, but some are bigger than others."

"Exactly."

"Don't tell me this makes sense to you?" the detective shot at Grissom who had started nodding his head.

"The nature of infinity has been at the center of philosophical debate for ages. The idea one infinity could encompass other infinities has long been considered."

"I'm officially lost," the detective groaned.

"I think I get it, Jim. Look at the counting numbers: zero, one, two, three. Okay? Well, there's an infinite number of them. But there's also an infinite number of even numbers and an infinite number of odd numbers. You combine the two, and you'll get a bigger set," Catherine said excitedly.

"No," the mathematician replied kindly, giving her a shrug. "All three of those have the same cardinality."

"But there's twice as many numbers as there are odd or even numbers," she said crestfallen.

"In your example, all three sets are denumerable," he replied, chuckling when Brass groaned again. "All it means is that they are countable. In theory, you can arrange the numbers in a logical way so that you could count them all."

"Okay," she said doubtfully.

"No, I think I get it," Sara said. "In any of those sets, you could pick a specific element. Since they are ordered, you'd then be able to find a corresponding number in one of the other sets."

"Exactly," Brandenburg said, giving her a smile.

"So, how do you get bigger infinities then?" Grissom asked.

"There are sets of numbers where you can't list all of the members. The set of irrational numbers is one such set. And Jim, an irrational number is just a number that can't be expressed as a fraction."

"Yeah. Sure."

"Trust me," the mathematician chuckled. "Anyway, no matter how you try to list the irrational numbers, you can always find a new one that isn't included in your listing. So, the cardinality of the irrationals is higher."

Brass dropped his head into his hands, letting out a groan. "This is insane."

Brandenburg laughed at the detective as he slid into a more comfortable position on the bed. "Actually, the mathematician who developed the idea of cardinality, Georg Cantor, spent the rest of his life in an insane asylum."

"Why am I not surprised?"

"He was trying to prove his continuum theorem. Here it is," he said, pointing out a section of the photograph. "He thought there was a numerical relationship between the different cardinalities."

"Do I even want to know if he was right?" Brass asked hesitantly.

"Well, about one hundred years later, Kurt Gödel proved it was impossible to prove or disprove the continuum theorem."

"I think I'm getting a headache," the detective stated.

"Of course, Gödel went insane, too," Brandenburg said, pausing to look at Sara with a playful grin. "He was convinced someone was poisoning his food, and he starved himself to death."

"Infinity drives you crazy, huh?" Catherine joked.

Brandenburg gave her a thoughtful look. "Infinity is a concept that makes perfect sense as long as you don't think too much about it. Rather like love, in a way."

"Oh?" Catherine asked in amusement.

"They both drive you crazy. Just when you think you start to understand it, you find out it's more confusing than you realized. Then, when you think you can't get in any deeper, you find you can," he said, turning to give Sara a friendly look. "None of the rules apply anymore."

"Really?" Grissom asked, feeling his temper rise when Sara gave the mathematician a grin, enjoying some sort of private joke.

"Yes. The basic rules of mathematics no longer apply when you start dealing with infinite sets. It's not very intuitive. There's even a number of people who still doubt the existence of infinity. They're the mathematical equivalent of the Flat-Earth Society."

"Do you see a connection between the other cases?" Grissom asked.

"I don't think this was done by the same person. The equations left at the other scenes were uncommon, but not especially unusual. This is very esoteric, not to mention far more complex. There's no mistakes that I can see anywhere in these equations, unlike the other scenes."

Grissom nodded. The mathematician's suspicions matched the conclusion QD had drawn earlier.

"What does this have to do with tarot cards though?" Catherine asked with a bewildered expression.

"Actually, Cantor picked the aleph to represent cardinality because of that. Interest in mysticism was widespread in Europe at the time he developed the concept. I believe the university library has some books on the connection in the math history section."

"And the Magician has an infinity symbol on it," Grissom pointed out.

Brandenburg started to respond, before staring at the other professor for a moment. Reaching around Sara, he grabbed the phone, quickly punching in a number.

"May, when you get a chance, bring my files on the police case to me in the hospital," he said quickly.

"What's up?" Sara asked him after he hung up.

"I think I have an idea what the killer was trying to do with the math equations. I need to double-check it though," he said, giving her an odd look. "Let me get back to you."

* * *

Grissom was rinsing the last of his breakfast dishes when the knocking started. Letting out a sigh, he placed his arms on the counter. He'd left the hospital directly, ignoring Catherine's attempt to speak to him.

The entire situation had been confusing for him. Logically, he knew Sara wouldn't have changed her mind about giving him a chance, but seeing how at ease she was with Brandenburg had made him jealous.

That had made him feel worse, since he knew Sara wasn't the type to play games with him. So he had let her stay during the discussion of the case as a type of peace offering. He knew she would be interested in the case, even if it was unlikely she could help with the photos.

When the mathematician made his comments about love, it seemed like he and Sara had shared a private conversation, and that had made him nervous. On top of his earlier confrontation with Catherine, it had been too much for him to handle.

At the second knock, he pushed off the counter and headed to the door. Catherine wouldn't leave until she ready. Ignoring her wouldn't do any good. Opening the door, his scowl changed to a look of confusion when he found Sara on his doorstep.

"Can I come in?" she asked when he made no move.

"Of course," he said, heading back to the kitchen to retrieve cups of coffee. Sitting down on the couch, he stared at the steam coming from his cup. He knew he needed to explain his contradictory position to her, but wasn't sure where to start.

"I was going to ask you to join me for breakfast, but you had already left work," he ventured. "You left without saying goodbye."

"You were talking to Archie about the case. I didn't want to interrupt. And I was going to invite you over for breakfast, too."

Grissom gave her a curious look, setting down his mug and turning to face her.

"You were?"

"Yeah. I'm not angry with you; you know that, don't you?"

"I wasn't sure," he admitted.

"I'm not. Like I said, you confuse me at times. I don't understand why you wouldn't let me help with the case."

"I'm not being hypocritical, Sara. It's hard to explain."

"Try," she said, reaching over to take his hand. "Please. I can't help if I don't know why you do things."

"I don't want you to get hurt, but it's only a matter of time. I'm trying to minimize that," he said, running his thumb over the back of her hand, being careful of the bruising.

"I don't understand."

"Our being involved will come back to hurt you. Somebody, some time in the future, is going to hold it against you. They'll try to say you're sleeping your way into the job."

"I don't care what others think, Grissom. You should know that about me."

"It's more than what they think. It's what they can do," he said softly. "If I give the others some slack, and it causes a problem, it would reflect poorly on me. If I did the same with you, it'd look like you took advantage of this. It could cost you your career. I wouldn't do that to you."

"Okay," she said, giving him an understanding shrug. "I can see where you're coming from."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I don't agree, but I won't push it. I'll stay off this case if it'll make it easier on you."

"Are we okay?" Grissom asked tentatively.

"Of course. Even though I think you're being overprotective," she said kindly.

"This case was bothering you. I saw your reaction in the morgue. The victim was alone, consumed by bugs. You're too close," he stated kindly.

"It always bothers me when we get that type of case. Sorry, I don't like bugs or rotting bodies. But I've never let it interfere with my work."

"True," Grissom said, taking off his glasses and running his hand over his beard. "But you have a personal stake in this case. You know that would disqualify you automatically."

"Well, the same could be said of you. You're investigating the killer who put your … employee," she said with a smirk, "in the hospital. You going to hand the case to Ecklie?"

"I considered it."

"What?" Sara asked, openly surprised.

"Processing your apartment was difficult. I was having a hard time staying detached. I thought about giving the case to Conrad. Despite his personality, he is a good scientist."

Sara's expression softened as she watched him. The admission had been difficult for him to make. She doubted if she'd be able to remain completely detached if she ever had to process a case where Grissom had been hurt.

"Look, Grissom, I'm not asking you for any special consideration," she said, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

"I know that," he insisted. "I'd never have been willing to try this if I thought you would pull something like that."

"Well, that goes both ways. I don't want you giving me any leeway, but you can't try to protect me, either."

Running his free hand over his face, he gave Sara a weak smile. "Now you see why I was hesitant to get involved. I really _don't_ know what to do."

"Don't worry. I know we have to feel this out. It's not going to be the last time we have a problem. Trust me, okay?"

"I'll try."

"That's all I'm asking for," she said, smiling at him. "But I need you to talk to me, let me know why you're doing things. I want this to work between us."

"I don't want you to ever regret this decision," he said softly. "I've never done this before. Be patient with me as I figure out what to do."

"I know. It's hard figuring out the work scene."

"That's not what I really meant," Grissom said, getting up to walk towards the kitchen. He felt she deserved to know the truth, but it was a big admission for him to make. Her reaction could be painful.

"I've never been in love before, at least not romantically. All of this is new to me. I can't get a handle on it."

When Sara moved to stand beside him, he flashed her a nervous smile. He had no idea how she'd react to his bombshell. Would she understand why this was so hard for him? Or would the knowledge that he'd gone nearly half a century without feeling a basic human emotion scare her off?

She reached up to run her fingers through his hair. Seeing his anxiety, but not knowing how to reassure him with words, she wrapped her arms around him. Grissom relaxed, dropping his head to rest his cheek against hers. They stayed in a gentle embrace for a long time, swaying together.

Sara was the first to lean back. She ran her fingers through the curls at the base of his neck, her eyes showing him nothing but acceptance.

"I love you, too, Grissom."

He leaned in to kiss her, reveling in the feel of her lips against his. It started gently, growing bolder with each successive kiss as their hands began roaming over each other. He moaned when she opened her mouth to him, their tongues joining in the exploration.

Grissom ran his hands gently across her body. When he slid his hands down to her hips, pulling her against him, Sara broke off the kiss reluctantly.

"I didn't mean to rush you," he said.

"You didn't. You wouldn't want to continue, trust me. The bruises are ugly. You don't want to see them," she said, giving him a bashful look before walking back to the couch.

Grissom followed her, wrapping his arms around her tenderly. Brushing gentle kisses on her neck, he leaned in close to her ear. "You're beautiful," he whispered.

Turning her around, he kept eye contact as he reached for the hem of her shirt. She blushed and shrugged, making no move to stop him when he removed it.

He ran his fingers gingerly along her collarbone, pausing to run his fingers around the edges of the bruising. "Does it hurt?"

She shook her head, avoiding eye contact, until he his fingers began to roam over her body.

The bruising was more extensive than he imagined, but did little to detract from her beauty. Instead, it served as a reminder of how close he came to losing her. Even with her in front of him half-nude, he found it hard to believe she had picked him.

Lifting her head to face him, he brushed a soft kiss against her lips while one hand returned to caressing her.

"You're very beautiful," he stated.

Grissom tenderly explored her body, taking his time to make sure he didn't aggravate any of her injuries. Slowly, he brought her to a climax.

He continued to stroke her lightly as she caught her breath, finally breaking the kiss to rest his forehead against hers.

"How long?" he asked with a ragged voice.

"I don't know. You wouldn't let me find out before," she teased, trying to move her hands lower.

"No. Until we can make love. The doctor told you to wait," he said, sitting up and resting his elbows on his knees, trying to get his breathing under control.

"Doc was just teasing. It should be fine now," she said sitting up on the couch.

"Are you sure? I don't want to hurt you."

Sara smiled at him as she stood up, pulling him along with her. Slipping her arms around him, she kissed him deeply.

"I'm sure. I want to make love with you."

Grissom smiled in return, kicking his shoes off as he led her to his bedroom. She mimicked his actions, but managed to leave her shoes neatly placed beside the door.

They began to explore each other with a tender hungriness, slowly making love until they both reached their release. After a minute, he shifted Sara so he could pull the covers over them.

Grissom pulled her close to his chest, stroking her back until exhaustion finally caught up with both of them, each falling into a deep slumber.

_TBC_


	17. Ch 17

**Cardinality  
****Summary:** A serial killer is stalking the citizens of Las Vegas. Started out as a case file but the G/S aspect demanded equal representation. This is the edited version for this site. The completed version can be found at my web site.  
**Rating:** R for subject matter  
**A/N**: No real spoilers. Many thanks to Burked for teaching me how to be a serial killer, among many other things.  
**Disclaimer**: Obviously, I don't own anything related to CSI. If I did, certain characters would be getting more screen time – together!

* * *

"_I cannot help it; in spite of myself, infinity torments me."_ – Alfred de Musset

**Chapter 17 **

Grissom woke with a start, momentarily confused by the extra body in his bed. Using the dim light from the hallway, he watched his new lover sleep while he tried to get his breathing under control.

When Sara began to stir, Grissom shifted so he could run his hand soothingly over her back, wondering if she was a restless sleeper or if the recent events were haunting her dreams as well.

Once she settled back into a peaceful slumber, he continued to trace light patterns over her skin, drawing enjoyment and comfort from the act. A smile formed as the last visages of his bad dream faded, replaced by visions of what their future held.

A quick glance at the clock revealed they would only have another hour or so before they had to get up. Grissom slid quietly out of the bed, being careful not to wake his companion. Grabbing his jeans from the floor, he softly closed the door behind him as he headed to the kitchen.

He was in the process of making a fresh pot of coffee when the phone rang.

"Grissom."

"Hey, Gil. Just got a weird phone call," Catherine yawned.

"Define weird."

"Yesterday, I started going over what we know about mush-man. None of his family's in the area, so I left a message with the manager at his last job before I headed home."

"He was a bookkeeper at a distribution center?"

"Right. Worked there until the place was bought by some chain."

"Okay," he said, sniffing cautiously. The smell of the pot roast in the crock-pot caught his attention, prompting him to scour his cabinets looking for vegetarian-friendly offerings. With all the hours he spent on this case and with Sara, he'd fallen behind in his shopping. The only 'fresh' vegetables he had were better suited for a compost pile than an evening-after meal.

"They called back a minute ago. The foreman, manager, district manager, and a Convesco vice president, along with their corporate lawyer, are on their way to answer questions."

"What kind of message did you leave?" he asked incredulously. Moving to another cabinet, he made a face at the limited selection.

"All I said was I had some questions about a murder and to call me back."

"And they brought in the big guns for that," he said curiously.

Turning around, he spotted Sara in the living room, wearing her jeans and his t-shirt. She gave him a playful grin as she resumed the hunt for the remainder of her clothes, heading back to the bedroom once she was successful.

"Weird, huh? Thought you'd find it interesting."

"Very. They know something."

"Oh, yeah. They're going into CYA-mode for some reason," Catherine huffed.

"What time are they going to be there?"

"Around ninety minutes. The VP is flying in from Tulsa. Hey, did you patch things up with Sara?"

"I'll meet you at the lab in a little while," Grissom said, hanging up the phone as a now-dressed Sara walked towards him. "Sorry. Didn't mean to wake you."

"It's okay. Slept more than I normally do."

They watched each carefully, sharing timorous smiles. Each sensed the nervousness of the other, but neither was sure how to proceed. Grissom felt a wave of confusion as he stood there. This was what he had wanted, had dreamt of, for a long time, but now that it was here, he was unprepared.

As satisfying as their lovemaking had been, it had happened sooner than he'd expected. Grissom thought he'd have time to ease into this, to let her into his life gradually. He wasn't even prepared to offer her a meal, let alone his inner secrets.

But it wasn't fair to ask Sara to wait for him, and Grissom was determined not to retreat from her. He hoped she'd continue to be patient; his initial forays hadn't been overly romantic. Even David had sent her flowers as a get-well present, something he'd still overlooked.

"You okay?" Sara asked hesitantly.

Grissom nodded, moving to retrieve a pair of mugs. Seeing her cautious look, he gave her a reassuring smile.

"I keep expecting to wake up," he said, spreading his arms in an invitation.

Sara stepped into his embrace, wrapping her arms around his waist. After a loving kiss, she pulled back to give him a mischievous look.

"Hope it's from a dream and not a nightmare."

"A fantasy, actually," he said, chuckling when she gave him a salacious look. "I can't believe this is real."

"It's very real."

"No regrets?" he asked as he went to pour their coffee.

"Only that you have to go to work now."

"I'd offer to make you a romantic dinner, but I wasn't expecting company."

"I'll take a rain check. I need to head home for a change of clothes anyway. So, what's up at work?"

"I need to see Catherine," he answered vaguely.

"It's about the serial killer," she stated, shrugging when he nodded. "Never mind. You can't talk about it, I know."

Grissom gave her a sympathetic look. He understood her frustration. She had the skill and knowledge to help stop the killer, but because of her involvement, she couldn't work the case. He cocked his head in thought. If she had been any other victim, he could provide non-specific answers.

"The first victim's last job was at a distribution center outside of Ripley. The management is sending over their lawyers to answer questions."

Sara sat down her mug of coffee quickly, giving him a startled look.

"The Convesco plant?"

"Yeah. How did you know?" he asked, setting his own coffee down.

"Before I had to drop this case, I was looking into the victims' backgrounds. Jim Smith, the security guard killed at the warehouse, used to work there before he moved to Vegas."

* * *

Brass met Catherine in the break room where she was sipping her second cup of coffee.

"I hope this was worth disturbing my beauty sleep," he muttered.

"Must get interrupted a lot," she quipped.

"A comedienne. I wouldn't quit your night job. Is Gil coming in?"

"Yeah."

"You don't sound too thrilled," Brass said, raising a questioning eyebrow.

"He was in a foul mood yesterday," she sighed.

"Still not resting?" Brass asked, his concern clear.

"I think that's part of it. Plus, he had an argument with Sara."

"Couldn't have been that bad."

"I don't know, Jim. He was pretty pissy."

"I do know, Catherine," he smirked. "She spent the day there again. Remember, that police escort of hers reports to me. I thought you were going to talk to him about keeping a low profile."

"I did," she said, rolling her eyes. "Guess I need to draw Gil a diagram."

His comeback died in his throat, replaced by a knowing chuckle as Grissom walked brightly into the room.

"Someone's in a better mood," Catherine said, keeping her attention focused on her coffee.

"I think we have a break in this case."

"Really? Care to share?" Brass asked, his eyes bright with suppressed mirth.

"Morabito wasn't the only victim who worked at that facility – so did our dead security guard."

"You sure?" the police captain asked.

"Sara was working on the victims' backgrounds. She recognized the place."

"You've been talking to her. I guess you did patch things up," Catherine said, grinning widely.

"Two victims, living in different areas of the county, both used to work at the same company, and the management of that company is now nervous. Something's up," Grissom said, ignoring his friends' amused looks. "What time are they going to be here?"

"The locals are waiting in the interrogation room. The corporate guys are on their way over from the airport. They seem nervous, but they aren't going to say anything until the bosses get here."

When the remainder of the corporate staff arrived, they settled into the largest interrogation room, having to scavenge chairs from other areas. The plant's foreman and manager were noticeably agitated, with their supervisors quietly talking to them.

"A bit crowded in here," Brass said lightly. "We don't normally have committees."

"First things first, I want to make it clear that Convesco came of its own accord. We are voluntarily cooperating with the Las Vegas Police Department's investigation," Marge Hurley, the attorney, stated after placing a digital tape recorder on the table.

"We at Convesco take pride in our commitment to the community. We value the services afforded by your department, and we want to help in any way we can," the vice president added.

"Our company follows, and often exceeds, all state and federal regulations. Our Ripley facility has never been cited for any violations in any inspections," added the district manager.

Grissom exchanged confused looks with his colleagues, before turning back to the nervous group. "We're not OSHA."

"We're well aware of that. However, it is pertinent. Convesco has never had any trouble with any government agency, local to federal. Our record will show that this incident was an aberration," Hurley said.

"Incident?" Catherine asked.

"It was an accident," moaned the foreman, who wilted under the stare from the lawyer.

"Relax," Catherine said kindly, flashing him a smile. "You are?"

"Yeager. Joe Yeager," he responded weakly.

"What kind of accident, Mr. Yeager?"

"It was a forklift accident. They happen sometimes. We didn't think anything of it at the time."

"Mr. Yeager, I appreciate your willingness to help, but it would help if you'd tell us why all of you came here," Grissom said, trying to cut to the chase without making the nervous man more upset. "Why are you telling us about a warehouse accident?"

Yeager gave him a confused look, speaking before his corporate supervisors got over their shock.

"Don't you want to know about the stolen warfarin?"

* * *

Nick stirred his coffee absentmindedly as he watched Sara reading a forensics journal. He'd heard a number of rumors floating around, but he didn't know whether to place any faith in them. Warrick had advised him to drop the subject, but he was a CSI after all.

"So, how's Max?" he asked, taking a seat across the table from Sara.

"Okay. The doctor wants him to stay in the hospital for another day or two. There's some sort of problem with his blood pressure."

"Must be tough. You can't really date in a hospital room. Too many interruptions."

"I do not want to know how you know that," Warrick muttered.

"He's a friend, Nick."

"Uh, huh. Kind of a warm night to be wearing a high-neck collar."

"I'm behind on my laundry," Sara replied, peering briefly from behind her journal.

"Uh, huh. Sure it isn't to cover whisker burns?"

"Nick!"

The younger man jerked when he heard his supervisor's voice, spilling his coffee over the table. Grissom paused, a confused look on his face when Warrick and Sara tried to contain their chuckling. He turned to a furiously blushing Nick.

"I need you and Warrick to head to Ripley. Now."

"Whoa. Must be a big case if you're sending us off before shift starts," Nick said, silently breathing a sigh of relief that Grissom hadn't heard his comment.

"A load of warfarin was stolen from a facility where two of the serial killer's victims used to work. Big enough?"

"Damn!" Warrick said, grabbing the slip of paper from Grissom.

"See ya, Sar. Have fun with the paperwork tonight."

"Bite me, Nick."

"Don't feel like standing in line, sugar!"

Sara gave Grissom an amused look as he walked towards her. "Paul from swing shift is covering any cases that come in tonight. Grab one of the cold cases from the board in my office. We're going to get this guy, Sara. I promise."

She smiled at him, wondering if he realized the irony of assigning her a dead case while promising to solve this one.

* * *

The Convesco employees were still conferring in the corner of the room when Grissom returned with a folder.

"I've sent a team to process the building. Why don't you start at the beginning and tell us exactly what happened?" he suggested.

"Our company is one of the region's major supplier to nursing homes. We handle a number of bulk medications at our Ripley facility, including warfarin. We take great care with all of our drugs," the vice president said.

"Whenever there's any type of accident in one of our warehouses, we pull any damaged containers from the inventory immediately," the district manager added. "We have a designated holding area where they can be stored until they are hauled away for disposal."

"And you had an accident involving some warfarin?"

"Right," the foreman said. "It really was an accident. They happen sometimes. One of our forklift operators snagged a case of warfarin with the tines of his machine. It only ripped the box open, but like he said, we pull everything that's damaged from inventory."

"When did you realize it was missing?" Brass asked.

"This morning. I checked after your phone call."

"Mr. Yeager, what made you decide to look?" Grissom asked.

"Our sales reps were saying that the police had been around the nursing homes, asking if anyone was missing any. The news said that the killer was using warfarin. When you called, I figured that's what it was about, so I checked."

"How much was missing?" Catherine asked.

"The whole case. It's bulk stuff, for places that use a lot of it. There are six bottles in each case, each with one thousand pills."

"Any idea how long it's been missing?" Brass asked after exchanging nervous looks with his colleagues.

"Not really," the manager added. "The accident was about six weeks ago. There haven't been any others since then. The company that handles the disposal was scheduled to make a pick up at the end of this month. No one had any reason to be in there."

"We're going to need a list of everyone who has access to the storage area," Brass said.

"That could be anybody," Yeager said.

"You don't monitor who has access to your drugs?"

"Detective, we don't handle controlled substances. None of the medications we carry have a 'street value'. Theft was never a concern," stated the district manager.

"It's a safety precaution. There's potential for accidental exposure if a damaged container is left in the warehouse. All of the employees know to stay out of the storage shed unless they are wearing protective gear."

"Okay," Brass sighed. "Who would have been the last person to have handled the warfarin?"

"I guess that would have been Terry," Yeager said.

"Terry Peddicord was the forklift driver who damaged the container. It would have been his responsibility to move the box to storage."

"No one supervised him?" Grissom asked.

"For something like that? Nah. It's stored in a small building by the parking lot. He was only gone a few minutes."

"So no one can actually verify he put the warfarin in the storage area?"

"I guess not," the manager admitted.

"We'll need to speak to Mr. Peddicord," Brass said.

"I, uh, I don't know how to get in contact with him," Yeager admitted.

"We had to let him go," the manager explained.

"Sounds like he had a reason to hold a grudge against your company," Catherine said.

"No! Terry wasn't like that. He's a nice guy, kinda shy and quiet. Really active in his church. He wouldn't hurt nobody," Yeager insisted.

"Why was he let go then?" Brass asked.

The manager looked to his supervisors for assistance. Hurley and the vice president had a quick whispered conversation, before turning back to the manager and nodding.

"He, uh, went downhill. After his fiancée dumped him. Started showing up late, making mistakes on the job," Yeager said.

"We thought he'd developed a substance abuse problem. He became short-tempered, had a couple of minor accidents. We pulled him in for a drug test, but nothing showed up," the manager said.

"What was the last straw?" Brass asked.

"Billy Prentice was the plant joker. One day, Billy started teasing Terry about something. Guess Terry didn't like it, 'cause he pulled back and broke Billy's jaw. Didn't think the little guy had it in him."

"Little guy?" Grissom asked quickly.

"Yeah. Terry's pretty short," Yeager said.

Grissom quickly opened the folder he'd brought in and retrieved the artist's sketch based on Brandenburg's and Still's descriptions.

"Do you recognize this man?"

"Yeah. That looks a lot like Terry."

* * *

Sara gave the report in her hand an evil look. It was just her luck that she'd picked a nine-year-old murder that had literally no evidence. She'd hoped to immerse herself in a case, but instead found herself rereading the same report for the fifth time.

She chewed her lip in frustration; something big was up. Everyone was bursting through the lab, actively pouring over the evidence from the signature killings.

Professionally, she understood why she couldn't work the case. Personally, she understood Grissom was in a difficult position. She appreciated his little efforts – his admission at his townhouse, not asking her to leave the room before sending Warrick and Nick off.

But it didn't help with her curiosity, and she wouldn't make things difficult for Grissom by asking for additional details.

Thinking about him, Sara began to grin. Yesterday's activities had been unplanned, but definitely enjoyable. She only hoped Grissom didn't feel rushed.

She looked up when Catherine walked in and leaned against her workstation.

"Looks like we have an ID on the killer. Terry Peddicord. Last person to have seen a missing case of warfarin. His ex-boss recognized him from the artist's drawing."

Sara gave her colleague a startled look, her grin reappearing when Catherine gave her a wink.

"Brass is trying to run down an address for Peddicord. He was renting an apartment, but broke his lease about a month ago. Never changed his address on his driver's license," she said. "We got the name of his church from his boss. Gil is talking to the minister now."

"You know, I'm not supposed to hear this," Sara pointed out.

"Really? Gee, I must be pretty exhausted, letting something like that slip," Catherine said innocently, dropping the expression as she suddenly shifted position to read over Sara's shoulder. "Yeah, I remember this case. We never found the murder weapon."

"Catherine," Grissom said, leaning into the doorway. "Grab some coffee; we've got a road trip to Sandy Valley."

He walked over to Sara after the blonde left, raising an eyebrow and giving her a pointed look.

"I didn't ask her a thing. Scout's honor," she said, holding her hand up in a salute.

Grissom smiled, and moved to stand beside of Sara, close enough that his arm was brushing against her body.

"I'm sorry. Once this case is over, I'll answer any questions you have."

"I know. Seriously, I didn't ask."

"I believe you. But it's frustrating," he pointed out.

"Very."

Grissom gave her a smile and waggled his eyebrows playfully before turning his attention to her neck.

"So, do you need to do more laundry, or is it whisker burn?" he asked quietly.

"You overheard Nick?"

"You're more than capable of busting his ass for that comment if you think he deserves it. Now, are you going to answer my question?" he asked lowly.

"You're a scientist. How do you propose finding out?" Sara asked, giving him a grin before turning her attention back to her report.

"Well, inspecting your laundry would be the first place to start, I suppose," he said seriously.

"Why don't you come over and do that when you get back from Sandy Valley?"

"We could be late getting back."

"I know. I normally don't go to bed before three. If it's after that, give me a call. If the machine picks up, you're too late."

"We can't have that, can we? I'll see you later," he said softly before he left.

* * *

Sharon Vale greeted the CSIs nervously, her robe wrapped tightly around her as she led them into the living room of her small home.

"Reverend Marcus called me. Said you were trying to find Terry. I don't know where he is. The last I heard, he skipped town."

"Do you have any idea where he might be staying?" Catherine asked.

"His folks owned a couple of properties outside of Vegas, but they're run down. No one could live in them."

Grissom excused himself to phone the information to Brass while Catherine continued to ask questions.

"His foreman at Convesco said Terry started acting upset after you broke up with him."

"No, that's not …" The younger woman paused, swallowing nervously. "Terry's done something really bad this time, hasn't he?"

"We don't know. Sharon, anything you can tell us could be useful."

"Terry started changing before we broke up."

"How?" Catherine urged softly.

"He's a sweet guy, well he was. At least, I thought he was, you know? We met when we were in high school. We both went to the same church. He was always helping other people, working on food drives for the elderly, things like that."

"Sounds like a great guy."

"He is. Was. He wanted to be an engineer. He was always tinkering with things. Anytime anyone had an appliance that needed fixing, Terry would do it. He never charged, neither. He wouldn't take money from his friends. He used to be so nice."

"When did that change?"

"It's hard to say, exactly, you know? It started small and got worse. Things were going so badly for him, and it got to him finally," she said, playing with the ends of the robe's belt.

"Go on," Grissom said, as he returned to the couch.

"Terry is really smart. A lot smarter than people gave him credit for. He didn't do well on tests, so his grades weren't as good as they could have been. He's pretty shy, so he never complained. And he's kind of small, so people tended to ignore him. You know how people get."

"How did he react to all of that?" Catherine asked.

"He never complained in high school. It's not his style. He won't confront people. He wanted to go to college, but he didn't do that great on his SATs. His folks didn't have the money to pay for it. He figured he'd work a couple years, study for the test again, and try later."

"So he ended up at Convesco. A forklift operator isn't a very challenging job. He must have found that frustrating," Grissom said.

"Yeah. Terry said it was pretty boring. He used to work puzzles, in his head, you know, while he was working. He never got promoted, neither, 'cause he wouldn't stand up for himself."

"And he never made it to college?"

"No. He never did do well on the SAT. And Terry was never good at saving money. He started complaining, and that was something he never did. The littlest things started making him angry."

"Anything else?"

"I swear, he was smoking something. He'd screw up the simplest things, he couldn't remember anything, you know. Terry swore he wasn't touching the stuff, but the way he was acting, you know he was."

"How did he react to not getting into college?" Grissom asked.

"Said it wasn't fair. He was smarter than most of the jerks that were getting scholarships. And Terry really is smart. He's not assertive, though, he let's people walk over him."

"Did Terry know Jim Smith? He used to work at Convesco," Catherine asked.

"Jim? Yeah, they used to be best friends. They hung out all the time before Jim moved to Vegas to go to Western Nevada."

"How did Terry react to that?"

Vale shifted her eyes nervously. Catherine could tell the other woman was hesitant to talk. After a moment, she took a ragged breath.

"God, that freaked me out," she said, her voice cracking as she ran her hands through her hair. "When Terry found out Jim got a scholarship, he, well, he lost it."

"Could you be more specific?" Grissom asked softly.

"I never thought Terry was racist or anything. I mean, Jim was his best friend; he helped him study for his SATs. But he got so angry. He said the only reason Jim got in was 'cause he's black. Terry didn't think it was fair that he couldn't get in, when he was smarter."

"Did he say that to Jim?" Grissom asked.

"Kinda. He wasn't nasty about it with him. He waited until Jim left to really go into it, you know? Jim was cool about it; he didn't get angry. He knew Terry was really upset about not getting into college. Terry even helped him move."

"Did Terry know a Vince Morabito?" Catherine asked.

"Yeah. Vince got pretty sick the last couple of years. Terry used to go over and do stuff for him. Take out his trash; drive him to the doctor's office. He's a really mean guy. Terry was the only one who could stand him, and Vince still was mean to him. To his face."

"How about a Victor Wallace? He sold insurance in Vegas?"

"I don't know. I don't recognize the name."

"What about Stevie Wilson?"

"Maybe. Terry has some cousins named Wilson. They live around Vegas. I only met a few of them. Terry wasn't really close to that part of his family. It's a pretty common name."

"Have you seen Terry since you broke up?" Grissom asked.

"No. God, no," she said, tears forming as she jumped from the couch to grab some tissues. "My brother told him he'd kill him if he ever, if he ever … Sorry. The last time I saw Terry he beat me bad enough to put me in the hospital."

"I'm sorry, Sharon," Catherine said softly. "Do you know what triggered him?"

"He said I wasn't seeing him," she said, shrugging after she wiped her eyes. "That was something he'd go on about when he was stoned. That people didn't treat him as, what did he say? 'A unique being' and he'd go on that he was 'A part of the finite'. Weird shit. Sorry."

"It's all right," Grissom said reassuringly. "Do you happen to have anything Terry may have handled or written?"

"The garage has a bunch of his tools. He wasted lots of money buying all kinds of things. When his parents died, he thought he'd fix up those properties. Maybe sell them or rent them. Then he found out he needed professionals to do some of the stuff. He didn't have the money, and no one wanted to buy those dumps."

Vale walked out of the room, returning a minute later with a lacquered box. Setting it on the table, she ran her hands over it lightly, more tears forming as she traced the decorative heart patterns carved in its surface.

"Terry made this for me. I kept all his cards he sent me in it," she said, pushing it to Grissom. "Take it. Please, just take all of it."

* * *

"What a sociopath!" Catherine exclaimed after they bagged the last of the tools and loaded them into the back of the Denali. They had printed them and compared it to copies of the prints lifted from earlier scenes. Jacqui would have to verify the match, but it looked like a hit.

"Not necessarily."

Catherine turned in her seat to give him a startled look as he pulled the SUV back on the main road.

"He's killing his friends and his family."

"True, in many ways his behavior is consistent with a sociopath. But it sounds like this guy was normal until recently. Sociopaths tend to be that way their whole life."

"If she's telling us the truth. She wouldn't be the first battered woman to lie about how bad things were," Catherine said.

Grissom acknowledged her point with a nod. Peddicord could be a sociopath, although he couldn't understand the point of leaving math equations in blood at the crime scenes.

_Was he trying to demonstrate how intelligent he was? Signature killers usually have above-normal intelligence. Of course, he made a lot of mistakes, so the killer's not as smart as he thinks he is. From the description, it sounds like he had low self-esteem, another characteristic. _

_But it didn't sound like the woman was lying. Could the stress have caused Peddicord to have a psychotic break? Or did he get tired of following society's rules? From his point-of-view, they were only holding him back. _

Grissom let out a sigh. There were too many options and not enough data. "When we get back to the lab, make copies of these cards and the writing from the crime scene. Drop them off with Philip. He might be able to give us a clue what's going on."

* * *

"Sidle," she answered as she pulled into the hospital parking garage.

"Good morning. Still up for company later?"

"You bet."

"Catherine and I just got back to the lab. Are you on your way home?"

"No, I'm stopping in to visit Max for a few minutes first. I'll be back home in about thirty minutes."

"Stay at the hospital. I have something for you and Max to look at."

"Sure. See you then," she said, smiling at the deputy that had walked over to escort her into the building. She hated the idea of being guarded, but at least this deputy was one of her friends. They made small talk until Sara entered Max's room.

"Hey," she said in surprise, noticing the extra bedside trays in his room. Each was covered in stacks of papers.

"Good morning, Sara," he said, waving her over to a chair with his left hand as he flipped through pages of equations. "This guy is weird."

"Yeah, I kinda saw the writing on the wall with that one."

He looked up, shaking his head at the bad pun. "Come here. I think this man hated infinity."

* * *

Brass entered the hospital room with Grissom, smiling as Sara looked confused at something Brandenburg was explaining. She returned his smile before fixing a happy grin on Grissom.

He smiled in return, despite his misgivings. Taking a seat beside Sara, he handed her a photo of Peddicord they'd retrieved from his ex-fiancée. She shook her head after a minute, passing it to Brandenburg.

"That's the man who delivered the food," he stated, nodding his head for emphasis.

"We've got an APB on him and his vehicle. We'll keep the escort on you until we catch him," Brass said.

"Wouldn't it make more sense not to? If he thinks that he's fooled you into thinking that other man was the killer, wouldn't he notice my escort? I don't mind acting as a decoy. I know not to eat any food that gets delivered to my house. Keep someone undercover in the area, and grab him when he shows back up."

Grissom swallowed nervously. Brandenburg did have a point, but for that plan to work, it would mean Sara couldn't have any escort, either.

"I don't like using decoys, Dr. Brandenburg. Too much room for something to go wrong. We don't know that he's even going to target you again."

"True," he said, giving Grissom a pointed look before a slight smile formed. Brandenburg had noted how he had darted his eyes to Sara nervously. "I have a question for you: I can't be a witness, can I?"

"You can testify that this was the man who delivered the food, but no, you can't be an expert witness," Brass said.

"Well, I know several mathematicians who could testify about the equations, if necessary. Can I tell you what I know about them?"

"Yes. You had already been working on it before you became a victim," Grissom said.

"Well, I think I know what the killer was trying to do with the equations. It doesn't make any logical sense, though."

Grissom flashed Sara a brief look. Technically, she could hear this; she'd already been exposed to the information before she was poisoned. Professionally, it would probably be best if she wasn't present, though.

He hated to ask her to leave when it wasn't strictly necessary. Grissom knew the mathematician was only a friend, but seeing her with the younger man always made him jealous. Both of them being near-victims of the serial killer was yet another trait she shared with Brandenburg.

"I'll see you guys later," Sara said, recognizing Grissom's discomfort. Besides, Max had already explained his theory to her. "Take care, Max."

"Thanks," he called out as she left.

Sara gave her escort a smile as they made their way back to the parking garage. She suspected Grissom's objections to the decoy operation had more to do with his concern for her than to the operations in general.

Once she got to her apartment building, she paused at the mailbox to collect the daily offering of bills and free credit cards. She waved to the deputies in the parking lot as she deposited the mail in her bag, answering her cell phone as she made her way up the steps.

"Sidle."

"Sorry about earlier."

"Nick, you are so dead."

"Hey, now, if I didn't have to rely on the gossip network for information, I wouldn't have to ask you those questions."

"Uh, huh."

"Really, I hope I didn't embarrass you. Look, why don't you come over for dinner? I'll get some of those fake burger things and toss them on the grill."

"Thanks, but tonight's not good," Sara said as she reached her floor.

"Uh, huh."

"See you at the lab tonight, Nicky," she said, laughing as she ended the call. Walking towards her door, she didn't see Terry Peddicord descending down the stairs, pulling out his machete as he snuck up behind her.

_TBC_


	18. Ch 18

**Cardinality  
****Summary:** A serial killer is stalking the citizens of Las Vegas. Started out as a case file but the G/S aspect demanded equal representation. This is the edited version for this site. The complete version can be found at my web site.  
**Rating:** R for subject matter  
**A/N**: No real spoilers. Many thanks to Burked for teaching me how to be a serial killer, among many other things.  
**Disclaimer**: Obviously, I don't own anything related to CSI. If I did, certain characters would be getting more screen time – together!

* * *

"_I cannot help it; in spite of myself, infinity torments me."_ – Alfred de Musset

**Chapter 18 **

Brass pocketed his cell phone and re-entered the hospital room, a pained expression on his face. The two professors had continued to review Brandenburg's notes on the equations from the murder scenes while he'd taken the call.

The _who_ and the _how_ of the case were falling into place. They knew Peddicord was the killer. They knew where he'd gotten his supply of warfarin. Now, they'd established a link between Peddicord and the other victims.

O'Riley had talked to the owner of the restaurant where the insurance salesman ordered carryout regularly. Peddicord had worked there for three weeks before Wallace's murder, and he'd been the one to deliver his food.

Brass waved Grissom over. Leaning in close to his ear, he quickly updated his colleague on the latest development.

Sinking into one of the chairs, he gave Brandenburg a sullen look. The _why_ of the case remained a mystery, and the mathematician's explanations of what Peddicord had tried to accomplish weren't making things any clearer.

"The guy did what?" Brass asked, his exasperation plain.

"Tried to make infinity go away," Brandenburg replied kindly.

The detective turned to look inquisitively at Grissom, who had gone back to reviewing the mathematician's notes. He gave Brass a tentative nod, turning his attention to another page.

"I think this is worse than having different sized infinities," he groaned. "I gave up trying to understand that one before I ended up in the loony brigade."

Brandenburg chuckled lightly, keeping his attention on the detective. "I did say it wasn't logical."

"Hah! It's not logical when a guy shoots his best friend when he finds out he's been slipping his wife the salami, then brags about it to a dozen friends," Brass said sharply. "This is crazy. What's the deal with insanity and infinity?"

"It's a complex concept. I wasn't being facetious earlier. The rules no longer apply when you deal with infinity. Simple things like A plus B equals B plus A are no longer true."

"What? No! Never mind. I don't want to know," Brass stated, holding out his hands in surrender when the mathematician started laughing harder.

"Infinity is at the heart of most paradoxes. It's a paradox in itself. Logic will only take you so far," he replied, giving Grissom a brief look. "Infinity is not intuitive. Some people never learn how to handle it. Like I said, it's rather like love."

All three men looked up when the door opened suddenly, revealing an attractive physician there to check on Brandenburg, who responded with an infectious grin.

Grissom watched with a mixture of ire and fascination at the ease with which the younger man flirted with her. Earlier, it had been with a buxom nurse who had brought him a soda and some cookies from the cafeteria. Before that, an older member of the cleaning staff had left glowing from his attention.

Grissom scowled slightly as he wondered if Brandenburg had been serious about Sara, or if she was merely one in a line of women the mathematician was entertaining. He certainly basked in the extra attention the staff was showing him in return.

As much as he wanted to see his flirtations as a sign of shallowness, Grissom had to admit the younger man's interest seemed real; he'd taken the time to learn something about each woman as an individual. In each case, he'd tailored his results to that particular woman, seeming to instinctively know exactly what to say to please her.

It was an innate ability to relate and respond on a personal level that Grissom knew wasn't his strongest suit. Seeing the reactions of the women around Brandenburg, it was a skill Grissom wished he had some measure of.

Not that he craved that type of response, but it would help with his relationship with Sara. He wanted to open up to her, but he'd grown so accustomed to keeping his feelings and secrets to himself that it had become second nature.

Brass saw his friend's baffled expression and grinned as he settled back into his chair. As tired as he was, Brass was glad for this latest interruption; it gave him a chance to try to process what Brandenburg had explained.

All three men had agreed that the writings left at the drive-in didn't tie in to the other equations. It had been left to taunt or tell them they had missed the initial victim. The fact it had been placed in such a public location led credence to the theory.

The formulas from the insurance salesman's apartment dealt with shapes. The spirals obviously continued forever, but so did the other equations. When graphed, the line would make a certain shape; as additional values were added, the pattern repeated, tracing over itself.

Peddicord had rewritten the equations using forms that weren't defined for all values, in essence creating breaks in the graphs. He then had tried to use that to prove the original forms were wrong. Between his flawed skills and flawed logic, he had made little progress.

Brass knew enough about trigonometric equations to follow that part of the conversation. It was the writing from the second scene that had him confused. He had never heard of complex analysis before.

Brandenburg had kept the explanation simple. That branch of mathematics dealt with contours – joined line segments. Equations could be performed on some contours that could change their shape.

Peddicord had tried to use those equations on the actual infinity symbol, but it wasn't the right type of shape. The rest of the writings were his attempts to figure out how to approach the problem.

Brass turned his attention to Grissom, who was still scowling behind his paper shield, much to the detective's amusement. On the way to the hospital, Grissom had discussed what they knew about Peddicord. It sounded like he could have a mental problem.

If the mathematician was right about his intentions, Peddicord had more than a few screws loose.

"You certainly have a way with the ladies," the captain quipped after the doctor left.

Brandenburg gave him a dismissive shrug, smiling when Grissom shot him an irritated look. Turning to focus his attention on the detective, a playful look crossed his face.

"Everyone likes to be appreciated. Little things can mean a lot. Let's say there's a woman who's basically stuck at home. Her movements are restricted. Even if she isn't the type to go out often, it's still frustrating."

"The choice isn't hers anymore," Brass replied, trying to keep his laughter in check when Grissom looked up, clearly interested.

"Exactly. Now, that's someone who would appreciate a surprise. Show up with a movie, a pizza and maybe some beer."

Grissom darted his eyes from Brass to the mathematician and back. Had he just given out dating advice? When Brandenburg turned to fix him with a pointed look, Grissom felt himself under scrutiny.

"Good beer. You won't go wrong with Heineken," Brandenburg told him with a smile.

"Right," Grissom eventually answered, blinking his eyes in confusion. "Anything else you can tell us about these equations?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Thanks, Max," Brass said, as he stood up quickly to leave.

His observations helped to confirm that Peddicord probably wasn't playing with a full deck, but it didn't help them locate him. The address the killer used on his job application at the restaurant was a post office box; he used his out-of-date driver's license to get that.

Nick and Warrick were checking out the properties his parents had owned. No one had spotted either Peddicord's truck or Morabito's van. The papers and TV news were running his picture, advising people to call if he was spotted, but it was as if their killer had vanished.

Peddicord could be anywhere.

* * *

Sara's scream of pain died in her throat, the wind knocked out of her as she was slammed forcibly into her apartment door. As she shook her head, she became aware of a strong arm across her shoulders, pinning her in place.

Coming out of her daze, she opened her eyes in time to see his other arm swing the machete handle into her right hand. Sara hoped the cracking sound was only the cell phone's case as it was crushed against the door.

"Let it go! Let it go! Cell phones are dangerous. You'll hurt someone," an anxious voice said urgently behind her, pulling away to land another crushing blow on her hand.

Sara fought to take a deep breath as she lifted her leg back and upwards. When her boot made contact with her attacker's leg, she ran the instep of her foot down his shin. She tried to shift all her weight onto that foot as it slammed into the top of his shoe; if done properly, the self-defense move could break multiple bones in the attacker's foot.

Peddicord let out a grunt of pain, and pulled away slightly. Feeling the pressure lessen on her back, Sara swung her right arm back forcibly, letting out her own yelp of pain as her elbow made contact with his face.

As he stumbled backwards, Sara spun away, trying to keep her balance as she placed distance between them. She took several ragged breaths as she tried to ignore the pain radiating from her head and hand. Blood was running down her face; she must have cut it on the metal door number.

"Las Vegas Police Department! I have a gun!" she exclaimed loudly, her mind racing through her options.

Her attacker looked to be in his mid-twenties. He was short for a man, standing about an inch or two shorter than she was, but he was strongly built. She'd managed to bust his lip, but he was still able to walk.

As far as she knew, none of her neighbors would be home; they all worked regular hours. There was no way to get into her apartment before he could attack again. The deputies in the parking lot wouldn't be able to hear her from here. Her attacker was between her and the stairwell. She was injured; he was armed.

She winced as pain washed over her. This was something no self-defense class could teach you. They never hit you hard enough to cause injury. They also neglected to mention how painful it was to hit someone with your elbow when your hand was broken.

"I know that, Sara," he chuckled, wiping away the blood flowing from his mouth. "Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you, but you had to get rid of the cell phone. They're bad. They make people disappear."

"Stay back," she warned as he took an ungainly step forward. A fresh wave of pain swept over her as she tried to reach for her weapon.

Blinking back the moisture forming in her eyes, she silently cursed Brass. The bulletproof vest he insisted she wear added extra bulk and restricted her movements. On top of that, Kevlar was useless against a blade; the machete would be able cut through it with no trouble.

"Let's go inside," he said kindly. "You'll be more comfortable there. I was beginning to wonder where you'd gotten to. You're lucky I'm patient."

"What do you mean?" Sara asked, stalling for time as she gingerly tried to extract her gun again. Tears formed; there was no way she could pull out her weapon with that hand.

"I need your blood."

"I'm sorta using it myself," she said, cursing herself for letting that slip. She needed to keep him talking. The last thing she should do was aggravate the killer.

Instead of being angry, Peddicord stopped and laughed. He let the machete fall to his side as he wiped more blood from his face. Sara shuddered as he sniffed it, shaking his head in disappointment.

"Now I understand. You're confused. That's common. I didn't understand for the longest time myself," he said with a sweet smile. "You don't need your blood any more, Sara. You're already dead."

"I'm dead?" she called out loudly, hoping a neighbor had decided to take a long weekend.

"Of course. You can see me. I'm a ghost, so you have to be dead, too."

"I don't think we're dead," she replied, wondering how you reasoned with someone who was unreasonable. "If you're a ghost, how come you can't walk through walls?"

Peddicord laughed. "That's only in movies. Don't be afraid. I'm here to help you. It's my job. Your soul is stuck here. I'm going to let it free."

"You don't have to go to the trouble," she offered.

"Oh, I don't mind. It helps me, too. Let's go inside. It won't hurt. I promise," he said, turning sideways to hobble back down the hallway.

There was an insulated carrier used to deliver pizza on the floor. When he leaned over to pull a ziplock bag of blood and a paintbrush out of it, Sara moved forward and picked up her purse from where it had fallen by the door.

"Sure, I just need to get my keys," she said sweetly, holding her purse in her left hand by the strap.

When he started to get up, she stepped forward, pivoting on one leg as she swung around. The purse caught him in the back of the head, tossing him further off-balance. Using her momentum from the pivot, Sara followed through with a kick to his back, sending him into the wall.

She cursed again as she ducked behind him. Jeans were more restrictive than gym clothes; the blow hadn't been forceful enough to incapacitate him. Reaching around her, she awkwardly retrieved her gun with her left hand as she backed to the stairwell.

Peddicord pushed away from the wall unsteadily, shaking his head from side-to-side, sputtering like an angered bull. The bag of blood he'd been holding had burst, covering both him and the plaster. He started to take short breaths through his mouth; his nose had broken when it hit the wall.

He turned to face her, his eyes blazing with fury.

"Dammit, Sara! I'm trying to help you! Don't you get that! Do you have any idea what it's like being stuck here, dead? No one sees you. You can go through an entire crowd, and no one will pay any attention to you."

"Stay back," she warned as she fumbled with the safety, walking slowly backwards.

"I need your damn blood. Now! I can't wait any longer! I want to go. I'm sick of being stuck here!" Peddicord roared.

Sara reached the stairwell. If she made it downstairs, the deputies would see the commotion and be there in a second. But Peddicord was staggering. If he fell as he came down the steps, he could break both of their necks, or the machete could kill either of them.

She had started to make her way up the steps, moving cautiously so she could keep Peddicord in sight and steady the gun with one hand. Peddicord rounded the corner, his face flushed with anger.

"Get down here, bitch!"

"Stay where you are!"

"Damn cunt," he yelled, lifting up the machete and charging up the stairs.

* * *

Catherine trudged into the locker room, uncertain whether she had the energy to be angry with Philip Kane. The forensic psychologist had listened patiently as she explained all they knew about Peddicord and his change in behavior. Kane then refused to make a comment until he had a chance to review the various writings.

Normally, she would have been more understanding, but she was tired. The entire lab was still on edge after Sara's poisoning. Peddicord had gone after one of them; he could strike again.

This guy was either a creep of the first order or a nut. Whatever the case, he was dangerous, and they hadn't been able to catch him yet.

She let out a sigh at the thought that maybe he had decided to flee the area after trying to frame Carrasco. They knew who he was now; if he struck in some other area, they'd be able to match his DNA and prints.

Packing her bag wearily, she was vaguely aware of someone entering the locker room and walking towards her.

"I need you."

"In your dreams, Jim," she snorted. Her intention to barrel past him and head home died when she saw his distressed expression.

* * *

"It's weird. Don't tell me you don't think it's weird," Nick said as Warrick pulled the SUV off the main road onto a gravel path.

"I don't think about it, man."

"Come on. Grissom and Sara. Together."

"We're here," Warrick sighed as he parked the Denali and hopped out. His friend had a literal one-track mind, speaking of only one thing all night. And morning.

They'd been checking out the properties owned by Peddicord's family. There were five total, spread across the outskirts of the city. The first three were in such bad shape even the city's homeless were avoiding them. This one seemed in slightly better repair.

The two CSIs stood by the SUV as the officers cleared the house. Each took the time to scan their surroundings as they waited.

"Look," Warrick said, pointing to a cable running into the building.

"Someone's tapped into the power supply."

Once the officers nodded to them, they quickly entered the building. It was immediately clear that someone was living in the shack. An unmade cot was pushed into a corner. A folding card table and chairs were set up nearby. A computer and printer were resting on a collection of milk crates. A small fridge hummed, an assortment of prepackaged food sitting on top of it.

"You gotta have an opinion," Nick pressed as he began snapping shots.

"My opinion doesn't mean squat. Get a picture of this," he said, nodding towards a ripped cardboard box under the table. Once that was done, Warrick pulled back the cardboard flaps. Reaching in, he pulled out one of the large plastic bottles. "Warfarin."

"The lot numbers matches what was stolen from Convesco."

Warrick moved to the fridge while Nick photographed the rest of the scene. "Damn," he exclaimed when he opened the door. The appliance was empty, but dark streaks and the smell of decomposing blood remained behind.

"There's a digital camera over here," Nick said from across the room.

Warrick nodded, moving to the card table. Various papers were littered across the top. One in particular caught his attention. It was a fire escape plan for an apartment building, the logo for the facility on the bottom of the page.

"What's the name of Sara's apartment complex?" Warrick asked for verification.

"Why don't you ask Grissom?" he snickered.

"Nick, drop it. Trust me: Sara's not a woman you want to piss off."

* * *

Grissom moved through his office quickly, tossing various folders into his briefcase. He was off tonight, and nothing short of an emergency would get him back into the lab. A smile formed as he thought of asking Sara to take the night off as well.

He could think of several ways to make her evening more enjoyable than being stuck doing paperwork, and Grissom wanted to try them all.

He cocked his head in confusion as he lifted a folder. The letter Brandenburg had sent him earlier was resting under it. Grissom had never finished reading it; he didn't need the other man listing his shortcomings for him.

_Then why had he given me dating advice? He's right about Sara. It probably is frustrating for her to be stuck inside. Until Peddicord's caught, she's not free to do what she wants. _

Giving a half-hearted shrug, he tossed the letter into the briefcase. It didn't matter what Brandenburg thought – he was the one going home to Sara. He couldn't stop smiling at the thought, wondering if this was some protracted dream from which he'd eventually awaken.

Grissom checked his watch; Sara had probably eaten breakfast by now. He could still pick up a movie and beer, though. Some of the food Greg had picked up for her earlier had to be non-sugarcoated. He could fix them a nice dinner afterwards.

His briefcase was packed, and Grissom was headed towards the door when Catherine and Brass entered his office.

"Whatever it is, it can wait," he said, impatient to get to Sara's apartment. When Brass closed the office door, he noticed their grim expressions.

"We have some bad news, Gil," Catherine said softly as she led him to a chair.

* * *

Grissom sat in the back of Brass's car, staring vacantly in front of him. Catherine was beside him, keeping a careful watch on her friend as they headed towards Sara's apartment. He'd been funereally quiet since they'd broken the news to him.

What news they had.

The only information they had was that Sara had been attacked. She shot Peddicord, but not before she'd been hurt herself. They didn't know how badly, only that the deputies had called for two ambulances.

As they approached the turn off to her building, one ambulance roared past, it's siren blaring. Grissom looked up at the sound, following its passage as it headed down the road. Catherine patted his knee reassuringly, causing him to snap his head around quickly.

She smiled weakly at him; the pain and fear he was trying to mask showed clearly in his eyes before he closed them and leaned his head back on the seat.

_God, be all right, Sara. Please be all right. I can't lose you. Not now. If you d…, no. No! She's fine. She has to be. She was able to take the bastard down. She couldn't have been hurt too badly._

_Could she?_

_Oh, God. This is my fault. I should have told her to stay at the hospital. She didn't have to leave. I was too damned worried about appearances. Did I think the world would end if anyone knew the truth? Now, she's … please be okay. Please, Sara._

_I can't lose you._

An ambulance and a collection of police vehicles were in front of Sara's building. Brass parked nearby, joining Catherine as they flanked Grissom as he made his way quickly through the crowds.

Grissom froze when they reached Sara's floor, his breath coming in short gulps. He quickly scanned the carnage, seeing the pools of blood, the reddish smears on the walls and floors, the crushed cell phone.

Normally, his mind could automatically and dispassionately recreate the events suggested by the evidence. Now, flashes of Sara's smile as she fell to sleep in his arms after their lovemaking, their only lovemaking, commingled with the violent images of her assault.

Catherine ran her hand down his arm, nodding towards a crowd at the opposite end of the hallway. He caught an occasional glimpse of Sara as various people shuffled around. He started down the hallway slowly, wanting desperately to see that she was all right, but afraid at the same time it was an illusion.

O'Riley saw them approaching and broke off from the main group to join them. Brass gave him a harsh look.

"What the hell happened here?"

"Looks like Peddicord hid in the stairwell. He snuck down when Sara came in, jumped her outside of her apartment. There was a struggle. Sara shot him when he rushed her with the machete," he said gravely.

"Is she okay?"

The burly detective looked at Grissom in surprise. His voice had been low, barely above a whisper, but it carried his concern. O'Riley saw Grissom was staring at the two distinct blood flows on Sara's door.

"Most of the blood is Peddicord's, or what he brought with him," he said reassuringly. "Remind me never to get on Sara's bad side. She beat the crap out of the guy. Broken nose, busted lip, knocked some teeth loose, possible concussion, may have broken his foot."

"Sara?"

"The paramedics are checking her out. She's banged up a bit, a little shaky, but in pretty good shape considering."

Grissom pulled away and made his way quickly towards the crowd. Despite what the detective told him, he needed to see her for himself. His pace slowed as he caught sight of her, feeling his chest tighten.

One paramedic was working on her hand, but he couldn't tell the extent of injury. A bandage was on her head, but he could still make out the bloodstains on her face and in her hair. A second paramedic was standing in front of her, shining a light in her eyes. _Head injury._

He started breathing again when the paramedic gave her a friendly smile and nod before pocketing the flashlight.

As Grissom stepped closer, he could see that she'd changed into a pair of coveralls. A dayshift CSI was putting her clothes into an evidence bag. He paled when he saw the slash through the outer layer of the bulletproof vest.

Catherine could tell Grissom was fighting to keep himself under control. His posture was rigid, but his hands were trembling slightly. He probably wanted – and needed – to hold Sara.

From her vacant expression, Sara could probably use the comfort as well. She was pale and distracted. Her answers to the questions the sheriff were directing at her seemed to come without her being aware of them.

Of course, both of them were very private. Neither was likely to initiate a public display of affection, even if Cavallo, Atwater, and half the lab and deputies weren't there. Catherine, on the other hand, had no such qualms.

She nudged Brass sharply with her elbow and walked quickly to Sara. Catherine pulled her into a gentle hug, asking if she was okay. Brass followed suit, smiling at her softly as he backed away.

The others turned to look at Grissom expectantly. He stood there, locking eyes with Sara who gave him a weak smile. Finally, the sheriff finally waved him over impatiently.

"It's only a hug," Atwater sighed quietly.

Grissom stepped forward and awkwardly slipped his arms around her, pulling Sara into a hesitant embrace. It wasn't the audience that bothered him; he was beyond caring if they knew how he felt.

He was afraid of losing control. It was taking all his self-discipline to keep his rage in check; rage at the monster that did this to her, rage at the deputies who were supposed to have been watching over her.

Rage at himself for not being there when she needed him.

"I'm okay. Really," she whispered softly into his chest, feeling his tension and the slight trembling in his body.

He stepped away so the paramedics could continue working on her. When they started to question her, his irritation grew. A psychotic mass-murderer had attacked her, and they wanted to know if she had warned him before shooting?

"Easy, Gil," Brass said, recognizing his mood. "This is a formality, in case Peddicord or his family try to sue."

Grissom scowled, but kept quiet, moving to stand beside her protectively. Cavallo gave him a curious look before continuing his questioning of Sara. Grissom's silence was broken when she failed to stifle a whimper of pain.

Looking down, his temper rose when he saw her hand. The paramedic was using a pair of forceps to remove pieces of the cell phone's plastic case that were embedded in her palm.

"Enough!" Grissom roared, causing everyone to jump. He placed his body between Sara and his supervisors.

"My CSI was just attacked. She needs medical attention. Now! You can ask questions later." Grissom didn't wait for a response before turning to the paramedics. "What hospital are you taking her to?"

"University."

"Take her there, now. Conrad, let Catherine in Sara's apartment. She can't stay here, and she'll need some things."

"Do you have someplace you can stay until the scene is released?" Atwater asked.

"She's staying with me. I have a guest room," Grissom added when the others gave him a shocked look.

"Sara, you're on paid administrative leave until a Shooting Board can be held," Cavallo said, but not unkindly. "As Captain Brass said, it's a formality. Clearly, this was an act of self-defense. Until then, consider this a paid vacation."

"Gil, why don't you take some time off yourself. You look like hell," Atwater said.

"Fine."

"Come in tomorrow morning, Sara," Atwater added. "We can cover any questions we have then."

* * *

Grissom paced around the small cubicle in the emergency room angrily. A number of small accidents and a food poisoning outbreak had flooded the hospital with cases. They had to wait three hours before Sara was taken to X-Ray.

He was waiting for her to return when Brass pulled the privacy curtain back and entered. "Sit down, Gil," he urged.

"That's something cops do."

"Huh?"

"Where the hell were her escorts, Jim? Why weren't they with her? Were they too damned lazy to walk up a flight of stairs?" he hissed.

"Whoa, there," Brass said. He knew his friend was on edge, but he wouldn't allow him to disparage his men. "We were working on the MO that he'd show up with poisoned food. No one expected him to be waiting for her."

"She never should have been alone. An escort should have been with her at all times."

"Really? Even when she was in your place?" Brass asked innocently. "Yeah, I know about that. Everyone knows about that. You're worried. I get it. Don't take it out on my guys, though."

The disagreement died off when Sara returned. It was obvious she was in pain and trying not to show it. He joined her sitting on the cot, running his hand lightly down her back until the doctor came to splint her broken ring and pinky fingers.

Grissom wrapped his arm around her protectively, taking the pain medication and pamphlets from the nurse as they walked towards Brass's car. The ride to Grissom's townhouse was silent, Sara staring absentmindedly out the window.

"Here," Brass said, tossing him a set of keys. "Catherine brought your car over. Sara's stuff is inside. You're entitled to a department rep when you're questioned, Sara. I can do it, or we can get someone else."

"You're fine. Thanks."

"No problem. If you're not up to talking tomorrow, give me a call. We can do it later."

"Tomorrow's fine."

"Yeah," he said, sharing a concerned look with Grissom. She seemed tranquil, but the doctor had only given her a local before setting her fingers. "Call me you guys need anything."

Grissom retrieved Sara's items from his trunk, a hint of a smile forming at Catherine's practicality. She'd not only packed a bag of personal items, but had brought Sara's laundry as well.

Once they were inside his townhouse, he set her items down and pulled her into a quick embrace.

"Are you okay?" he asked, moving his hands to cup her face.

"Yeah."

"Sara?"

"Really. Can I get a shower?"

"Of course," Grissom said, wondering if she was in shock. He grabbed a glass of water and a plastic bag from the kitchen, then took the bottle of painkillers from his pocket.

Grissom walked into the bathroom in time to see her struggling to pull off her boots. Sitting her on the edge of the tub, he removed them and her socks. Getting up, he turned on the water to start warming.

He handed her one of the pills, frowning when she declined.

"No tolerance for them. They knock me out," she offered.

"You don't need to be anywhere," he said, giving her the water and the pill, smiling wanly when she swallowed it.

Helping her to stand up, he lowered the zipper on the coveralls, slipping it off her shoulders. Working her injured hand carefully out of the sleeve, he eased the garment the rest of the way off.

Grissom walked to the medicine cabinet and retrieved a roll of tape, using it to secure the plastic bag over her hand to keep it dry. He quickly stripped his own cloths off, then joined her in the shower.

He turned her so her back was to him, letting the hot water rinse over them. Grabbing the bottle of shampoo, he began washing her hair, gently working away the blood. Grissom frowned as he worked out the mechanics of washing longer hair on another person.

Once that was done, he soaped up the washcloth and began moving it in gentle circles over her shoulders and back, being extra careful around areas that looked painful.

When he turned her around to wash her front, Sara cocked her head as she watched him. Reaching her left hand up, she brushed it over his cheek. For the first time, he was aware he was crying.

"I'm okay," she whispered before wrapping her arm around him, leaning into his chest. Grissom held her, finally letting out his suppressed emotions, rocking them gently as their tears flowed.

_TBC_


	19. Ch 19

**Cardinality  
****Summary:** A serial killer is stalking the citizens of Las Vegas. Started out as a case file but the G/S aspect demanded equal representation. This is the edited version for this site. The complete version can be found at my web site.  
**Rating:** R for subject matter  
**A/N**: No real spoilers. Many thanks to Burked for teaching me how to be a serial killer, among many other things.  
**Disclaimer**: Obviously, I don't own anything related to CSI. If I did, certain characters would be getting more screen time – together!

* * *

"_I cannot help it; in spite of myself, infinity torments me."_ – Alfred de Musset

**Chapter 19 **

Grissom frowned as he picked up the note from his pillow, crumpling it as he made his way into the kitchen. Letting out a huff, he tossed the paper away before tapping his fingers distractedly on the counter.

When hunger woke him earlier, he remembered the sad state of his pantry. Before heading to the store, he'd left the message for Sara. It turned out to be an unnecessary precaution.

Sara hadn't been joking about her lack of tolerance to painkillers. She'd been asleep for nearly ten hours. Given her normal sleep patterns, it was enough to be disconcerting. His own anxiety didn't help.

Returning to the kitchen, he tried to keep himself occupied with various chores. In between tasks, Grissom found himself drawn back to the bedroom, needing to reassure himself that Sara was fine.

_I'm overreacting. Look at her. She's content, resting peacefully. She's beautiful. _

_Let her get all the rest she needs. She's been through hell. This is probably the best thing for her right now. _

Grabbing a bottle of water and his cell phone, Grissom plopped down on his couch. He asked Catherine a series of perfunctory questions, needing to talk to someone more than being interested in what was going on at the lab.

"How's Sara?" Catherine asked when he ran out of diversions.

"Physically? She's out cold. Bastard broke two of her fingers and bruised some bones in her hand. Emotionally? I don't know."

"Has she talked about it?"

"No."

"She will when she's ready. How about you?"

"I've been better," he answered dryly.

"I bet," Catherine chuckled. "You need anything?"

"I don't know how ... I keep recreating what happened to her, Catherine, what could have happened. I can't make it stop."

"That's normal. I had the same problem after Linds was in that accident. It goes away in time."

"I know. Imagine what it's like for Sara."

"She's strong."

"The guy got to her a second time, even with police protection. That has to be scary."

"Look, the guys found where Peddicord was hiding. His truck and the stolen van were in a garage. He rode a bike to the crime scenes. Pretty good disguise. Who notices delivery guys?"

"They're everywhere," he agreed.

"Exactly. Anyway, they also found a journal, I guess you'd call it. Peddicord wrote down all the details about how he poisoned them. It's … disturbing," she said softly.

Catherine refrained from telling Grissom the particulars, knowing the information wouldn't help in his current state.

Peddicord had poisoned food he knew each of the victims would like. He brought Morabito laced soup, pizza for Smith, and beer for Wilson; they knew him and didn't think anything of sharing a meal with him.

Wallace was trickier. He ordered the man's usual dish, then showed up at his apartment. When the insurance salesman explained he hadn't ordered the food, Peddicord told him it must have been a mix up. He gave it to him, saying it would only be thrown away if he had to take it back.

He came back later, but not to kill them. The warfarin was to thin their blood to make it easier to collect, not to poison them. Peddicord seemed to think his victims were already dead, but they didn't realize it yet.

No, that was something Grissom didn't need to hear.

"Yeah, the guy was … thorough," she offered.

"Make sure copies of that get to Philip."

"Already done. Look, both Ecklie and I double-checked every piece of evidence. Everything is logged and labeled. We have him nailed, and there's no way he's getting out. She's safe."

"I know. It's…"

"Gil?" she asked softly when he hesitated.

"I don't know if I'm really helping her any. I'm a mess," he sighed in disgust.

"Nah, you're just human. Humbling, ain't it?"

"Catherine," he warned.

"Relax. No one has all the answers. The people who think they do don't even understand the problems."

"I know the problem all right – Sara's been poisoned, then attacked, by a lunatic, and I have no idea what the hell to say to her. I don't want to make things worse."

"Then don't say anything. Trust me, Gil; it's less what you say than what you do. You've already shown her you care. Keep doing that."

"And if that isn't enough?"

"Follow your instincts. Everyone has them, even you," she said kindly. "Keep that head of yours out of the microscope for a while longer."

"Uh, huh."

"Gil," she chuckled. "I think you're doing more than you realize to help Sara. Trust her; she'll let you know if she needs anything."

"I hope you're right."

"I usually am."

"Yeah," he replied sarcastically.

"Don't worry, Gil. About any of it. She's a survivor. And everyone knows it was self-defense. Sara won't have any problems with the Shooting Board."

"Good."

"I called the hospital. Peddicord's injuries weren't critical."

"Sara'll be glad to hear that. It'd bother her if she killed someone. That's something she swore she'd never do."

"That's true. Hey, the guys want to know if you want to meet for breakfast after Sara's interview."

"I'll ask her when she wakes up. I'll get back to you."

"Sure. I'm going on a lunch break soon. Want me to bring you anything?"

"I have food here. Thanks, Catherine," he said, hanging up the phone.

Letting out a sigh, Grissom collapsed on the couch, covering his eyes with his arm as he went over Catherine's advice. His mind drifted back to a conversation he had with Sara at her apartment before the poisoning.

_Sara said I didn't trust her, and she was trying to trust me. She took me as a lover. Sara's discriminating that way. She must trust me some. But enough to let me help? If not, is she going to regret this? _

_I don't want her to ever go. _

_How do I keep her? She said to trust her. I can do that. But what else? _

_Brandenburg would know what to do. Hell, he'd probably even tell me if I asked. He'd find it amusing. _

_Damn him. _

Lost in his thoughts, Grissom jumped when a hand brushed softly against his arm. Opening his eyes, he saw a contrite-looking Sara kneeling beside the couch, dressed in a t-shirt and his robe. She was watching him carefully, smiling kindly as she stroked his arm softly.

"Sorry. Are you okay? Migraine?"

"No, just thinking," he said sheepishly. Sitting up, Grissom reached over to pull her onto the couch beside him, running his hands lightly through her tussled hair. "How are you?"

"Fine. No, really," she added when she saw his questioning look. "Sorry I zoned on you earlier. Guess I was still trying to process it all."

"You probably still are trying to process it."

"Yeah. But I'll be okay," she said, giving him a shrug. "It's … hard to put into words. It's not that I don't want to talk to you. I'm not sure how."

"I can understand that," he said, giving her a wink before pulling her in for a gentle kiss. They both pulled apart and chuckled when her stomach growled loudly.

"Part of your anatomy seems capable of vocalization."

"I haven't eaten in over twenty four hours," she pointed out.

"I think I can take care of that. Stay there."

Grissom set their lunch on the coffee table, unwilling to allow the extra physical distance between them that sitting at the dining room table would require. From the way Sara leaned into him as they ate, he gathered she was drawing comfort from the contact as well.

"These are good," Sara said as she reached for another piece of pita bread, filling it with the roasted, marinated vegetables, hummus and feta cheese. "And they're easy to eat," she said, lifting her bandaged hand.

Grissom shrugged and smiled, pleased that she'd noticed his intention. He realized her hand would be bothering her and wanted to prepare a meal that required the minimal use of utensils. This was vegetarian, and it was a nicer meal than pizza.

They leaned back on the couch after the meal, Sara resting her head on his chest as her fingers moved lazily over his shirt. Grissom kissed the top of her head, smiling as his hands roamed across her back.

"Have you ever shot anyone?" she asked softly.

"No. It was a clean shoot, honey."

"I know. Really. If the circumstances were the same, I'd do it again. He didn't give me any choice. He wouldn't stop."

Grissom wrapped his arms around her tighter when he heard the catch in her voice.

"I've seen people who were shot. I can't even begin to count how many. But I've never seen someone being shot. It's different."

"True," he said, remembering watching when Catherine shot a suspect who had attacked him.

"He wouldn't stop. God, even after I shot him, he tried to crawl back up the stairs. He was crying, but it wasn't from pain. He said he needed my blood. He was going … He was going to…"

"Shhh, it's all right. It's over. He's never going to get out. He can never hurt you again, sweetheart," Grissom said soothingly, moving his hand to the back of her neck.

"I know. But I'm kinda afraid he's going to come back. It's really stupid. Sorry," she said, blushing as she pulled away from him.

"Hey. It's not stupid. I'd be upset if you weren't bothered. Hell, it's bothering me."

Sara smiled as she let him pull her back against his chest. "Thanks for letting me stay here. It's a lot easier knowing I'm not alone."

"You never have to be alone again," he said lowly.

"Neither do you."

Grissom continued to rub his hands over her back. When she remained silent for a long time, he wondered if a diversion would help.

"I picked up a movie while I was out. Figured it would help take our minds off of the case."

"That sounds great. Yeah," she said, mustering a smile as he moved to the DVD player. "What movie did you get?"

"_Silence of the Lambs_."

"What?"

"What?" Grissom parroted, wondering why she seemed shocked. "You and Doc seemed to think it was a movie I should have seen."

"Yeah. It's a good movie. To take our minds off of a serial killer," she said, a smirk forming as they lay back on the couch together. "You'll like it. There's even an entomologist in it."

By the time the movie reached the autopsy scene, Sara could feel how tense Grissom had become. Sitting up, she used the remote to turn off the movie and the television set.

"That was not a good movie to pick," he groaned in embarrassment.

"Don't sweat it. I would have warned you if I knew it would bother you."

"I'm sorry. I thought it would be a nice distraction."

"Hey, come on. It's the thought that counts," Sara said.

"It wasn't even my idea," he admitted sadly. "Brandenburg suggested it. Of course, he'd have picked something appropriate."

Grissom sat up, resting his elbows on his knees. His face soon disappeared into his hands.

_God, I can't even pick up a damn movie without making things worse. Am I the only one who doesn't know what that film was about? _

_Dammit! I only want to make things easier for Sara, and I'm screwing that up. I should be taking care of her. She's the victim, but I'm the one who fell apart in the shower. Hell, she's even trying to cheer me up now. _

_She could have done better. How long until she realizes it? _

_I can't lose her. _

"Hey."

Grissom finally looked up when Sara sat on the coffee table in front of him and pulled his hands away from his face. He gave her a bashful shrug before breaking eye contact.

"Guess I'm not very good at this. You'd probably be better off if you had picked…"

"Dammit, Gil!"

He turned to her in surprise when she used his given name. His embarrassment turned to shame when he saw her tears.

"Don't do this to me. Please, don't."

"Sara?"

"Don't run away from me. Don't shut me out. Not now. Not after everything that's happened."

"I'm not. I swear I'm not. I don't know how to help, Sara. God, I want to. I want to make your pain go away. I want to make you feel safe, to be happy," he said softly, reaching a shaky hand to brush away her tears.

"I don't know how. I don't know if I can. And I don't want to think about what it's going to be like when you realize that," Grissom added, his voice wavering slightly. He dropped his head back into his hands, silently cursing himself.

Sara pulled his hands back again, and then untied the belt of the robe, opening it so she could straddle his legs. Sitting on his lap, she lifted his face to hers, watching him intently, her thumb rubbing his chin softly.

"I'm right where I want to be. I'm with the guy I want to be with. That's all I want," she said moving to unbutton his shirt. "You're all I need."

Sara rested her forearms on his shoulders, her uninjured fingers running through his curls. Her kiss was deep and passionate, her tongue hungrily moving over his lips before slipping between them.

Their first lovemaking had been slow and tender, an expression of their love. This time was different, raw, with a sense of desperation behind their motions. It was an affirmation of their needs: the need to feel alive, to take comfort in the other, to give comfort to the other.

They stayed huddled on the couch, their breath ragged as the intensity of the experience faded. Grissom eased her away, smiling as he pulled the t-shirt down, all the gentleness that was missing earlier evident as he lifted a stray lock of hair away from her face.

"God, I love you, Sara," he whispered when he caught his breath, pulling her close against his chest.

"I love you," she answered, running a finger lazily through his beard.

They sat together for a long time before Sara leaned back, her head cocked in thought.

"I lied earlier. There is something else I need."

"Oh?" Grissom said, trying to keep his tone light. Her words made him nervous, but her expression was teasing.

"I need a shower," Sara said, lifting herself off of him. She reached her uninjured hand out to him. "Wash my back?"

* * *

Brass was waiting for them outside of the interrogation room with two cups of coffee. He handed one to Sara, giving her a supportive smile.

"Hey. You ready? We don't have to do this now."

"Let's get it over with."

"Sure. If you don't want me as your union rep, we can get you another one. We can stop the questioning at any time. You are entitled to have an attorney present," he said gravely before giving her a wink. "You won't need one. I have to tell you all this stuff."

"I have my trusty union rep to protect me," she said, grateful that he was trying to put her at ease.

"Don't forget dapper," Brass quipped, picking an imaginary piece of lint from his suit. He gave her another smile before turning serious again. "Look, these guys get their kicks making other people miserable. Don't let them get to you."

"Right."

"Hey, it might be justifiable, but it wouldn't look good if you beat the snot out of them. That's all I'm saying," he teased.

"Jim," Grissom said shortly. He knew the detective was trying to lighten the mood before the questioning started, but the reminder of the attack wasn't helping him any.

Sara could only have her attorney and union representative with her during the interview. Grissom knew that she would be cleared – it was as obvious a case off self-defense as you could have.

But he also knew Sara was still on edge. She hadn't said anything, but she had been uncomfortable whenever someone walked up behind her as they made their way through the hallways. The reaction may have been natural, but it still brought out his protective side.

Grissom gave her a wan smile as Brass escorted her through the door. He moved to the observation room, surprised to see Robbins and Catherine already there. The trio watched in silence as the legal formalities were taken care of, and Sara began to recount the events leading up to the attack.

"Owww. Damn good thing that the warfarin was out of her system," Catherine said, wincing when Sara described Peddicord's attack.

"Hmm," the coroner agreed. "Her head hitting door would have been enough to kill her."

The two didn't notice the irritated look Grissom threw at them.

"Lucky she didn't react as badly as Max did to the poisoning."

"Luck had little to do with it. He had knee surgery before he joined the case and would have been given an antibiotic as standard treatment. It kills the bacteria in the digestive tract. Those same bacteria excrete vitamin K."

"We get vitamins from bacteria…"

"Feces. Yes."

"I'll never look at my One-A-Day's the same," she said, her nose wrinkled in disgust.

"Max's vitamin K levels were probably still low at the time of the attack, so the warfarin worked faster on him. Is Sara on the pill?" Robbins asked suddenly, causing Grissom to give him a petrified look.

"I don't know," he admitted nervously.

Catherine chuckled, guessing the cause of his discomfort. "It never came up in conversation. Why?"

"Some forms of oral contraceptives interfere with warfarin. That could help to explain why it didn't affect her as badly. Plus, Brandenburg ate quite a bit more of the poisoned food, and he's recovering from a massive blood loss."

Grissom flashed the two another look before turning his attention back to the window, feeling his agitation grow as Sara was asked to go over the attack again.

Catherine saw his reaction, and she pulled him out of the observation room. They were going to make Sara describe the shooting several times, and it wouldn't do any good for Grissom to have to listen to it repeatedly.

They waited quietly in the break room, watching the weather report on TV. One by one, Greg, David and Warrick joined them, none of them willing to break the silence.

Grissom sat stoically until Brass and Sara returned. He gave her a brief smile, getting up to fix her another cup of coffee as her co-workers alternately fussed over and grilled her.

"Nick will be here in a minute. He's wrapping up some evidence," Warrick told her.

She smiled as Grissom handed her the coffee. He then turned to stare pointedly at Greg who had taken the seat beside Sara.

"Do you like working here, Greg?"

"Yeah," the tech said, hopping out of the chair quickly, smiling nervously as Grissom settled into it.

"Hi, Sara. Glad you're all right. This came for you last night," Judy said, leaning in from the hallway to hand her a manila envelope.

"Thanks. It's from Convesco."

"What do they want?" Greg asked.

"Sara?" Grissom asked when she stared at paper in her hands.

"It's a check."

"They're afraid you're going to sue," Warrick said, nodding his head.

"It wasn't their fault," she said, continuing to stare at the paper.

"Yeah, well, when has that ever stopped anyone from suing? Besides, some people think they can buy their way out of all their problems," Catherine said thoughtfully.

"They weren't kidding about their record. I checked with the state. They've never been cited for any violations," Warrick said. "But that doesn't mean a jury won't blame them for not noticing the warfarin was missing."

"It's not their fault. I don't want their money."

"Hey, why fight it?" Brass asked.

"Seriously! Use it as a down payment on a house," Greg stated, moving to look over her shoulder. His eyes opened in surprise, and he let out a low whistle when he saw the check. "Or several. That's a lot of zeroes."

"I don't want their money," Sara repeated, turning to Grissom for support. The company had done nothing wrong. She didn't expect them to pay her off.

"You can send it back to them later," he said, looking up suddenly at the bellow coming from the hallway.

"Sar! Damn, you know how to scare a guy!" Nick exclaimed loudly, moving to kneel beside her chair, drawing her into a gentle bear hug. Letting her go, he grinned teasingly. "It is okay to hug you, isn't it girl? You're vicious. Don't want you to get pissed off at me."

"Way too late for that, Nicky," she said, prompting him to hide behind Catherine. Sara flashed him a smile at his attempts at humor.

"She's not the one to look out for," Greg muttered.

"Let's go eat," Grissom said, shaking his head at their shenanigans, but with a twinkle in his eye.

* * *

"What time did Kane say he would be here?"

Grissom looked up from preparing the pitcher of iced tea to find Sara leaning against the counter. They had just finished breakfast when the forensic psychologist called, asking if he could stop by.

"He was calling from the DA's office. He should be here soon."

Sara nodded, then moved to stand in front of the bookcases, absentmindedly reading the titles, wondering why Kane wanted to see them. She doubted it was a social call, or that he would come here for an examination.

She knew she was still on edge, but it was fading every day, thanks mainly to Grissom.

After leaving the group breakfast yesterday, neither wanted to head back to the townhouse. Instead, they drove to the mountains, finding a secluded area where they could soak in the sun and talk.

Grissom had proven to be a very effective listener, holding her and offering encouragement as she talked. They stayed until late afternoon, leaving after he noticed her injuries were starting to bother her.

When they got back, she needed another painkiller to fall asleep, and spent the next eleven hours unconscious. After she woke up, they made love again. This time they went slowly, using hands and lips to fully explore each other.

A leisurely shower and breakfast followed, and Sara had hoped they could spend the day on some diversion. She would probably be able to go back to work on Monday, and it could be weeks before they had more than one day off together again.

Kane's call ended that hope.

Her one lingering fear was that someday Peddicord would come after her again. It was obvious he was mentally ill. If he could plead insanity, the possibility existed he could be set free in the future.

Kane couldn't talk about the case as long as it was active. He was coming from the DA's office. They must have reached a plea agreement.

Peddicord could be set free.

"Find anything interesting?"

Sara turned to see Grissom watching her closely. She gave him a half-shrug and a smile.

"Feel free to help yourself. Make yourself at home," he urged softly.

"Do you know when I can go back to my apartment?"

"I haven't heard when they're going to release it. Why? Getting tired of my company?"

"No," she said reassuringly, trailing her fingers down his chest.

"Well, there's no rush. You don't have to leave. It's not like I snore." Grissom's teasing smile morphed to a frown when she nodded at him, giving him an apologetic shrug.

"I've heard worse," she said, rolling her eyes when his frown deepened. "My roommate in college!"

"Oh."

"I'm not leaving you. I need to get back to my place."

"What do you need? You already have clothes here. There's a bed ready whenever you want to use it," he said softly. "I even gave you my spare toothbrush the first night you stayed here."

"Attached to that toothbrush, were you?"

"Very," he said seriously. "No other woman ever got one. No other woman ever will."

"Good. But I have to go back to my place. I'm not going to let this guy scare me," she said resolutely. "Besides, I need to water my plant."

"Okay, but it's welcome here, too," Grissom said, giving her a quick peck on the cheek before answering the knock at his front door.

Philip Kane smiled broadly as Grissom escorted him the dining room where he had a plate of danishes, sliced fruit and tea waiting.

"What can we do for you, Philip?"

"I finished my evaluation of Terry Peddicord and made my recommendations to the DA. I thought you'd like to know."

"What's wrong with him?" Sara asked softly.

"He's pseudopsychopathic."

"Is he insane?"

"Legally, in my professional opinion, yes he is. Mentally, he's not."

"What? Don't you have that backwards?" Grissom asked in confusion.

"No."

"He tried to frame Carrasco. He knew what he was doing was wrong. That means he isn't legally insane," Sara said hotly, wrapping her arms around herself nervously.

Kane gave her a calm smile. He suspected the news would be upsetting to her, and he wanted to be present when she found out.

"It's more complicated than that, Sara."

"The DA is letting this guy plead? He murdered five people."

"Charges haven't been filed yet. It's very possible Peddicord won't live to see a trial."

"What?" she whispered hoarsely.

"It has nothing to do with the shooting. His history suggested a psychiatric problem, not a psychological one. A brain scan revealed a large tumor affecting both frontal lobes. The doctors aren't sure they can treat it, or how much of Terry Peddicord will remain afterwards if they try."

"Frontal Lobe Syndrome?" Grissom asked.

"Yes," Kane said. Seeing Sara's confused look, he continued.

"That's a term used to describe a variety of symptoms that can manifest when there's damage to front portion of the brain. Peddicord has several: memory and coordination problems, he lost his sense of smell, lack of emotional control and a change in personality."

"How can you know that's what caused him to murder those people?"

"We won't know until after the tumor is removed, assuming he lives and is cognizant enough to evaluate. That's why the DA is waiting to file charges. Even then, it's clearly a case of diminished capacity."

"I don't get it. He tried to frame Carrasco," she repeated weakly. "He knew it was wrong."

"As you know from your encounter, Peddicord thought he was dead. He thought his victims were also already dead. In his mind, he wasn't doing anything wrong. He honestly thought he was helping them.

"Peddicord also thought he was trapped in a type of limbo. He was being held back on earth. Until he could free himself, he was being tortured. He saw the police as part of his tormentors, trying to stop him from finishing his work."

"Trying to get rid of infinity," Grissom stated.

"Yes."

"That's too damn weird," Sara sighed.

"I've been reading his journals and old letters. From what I can tell, he was apeirophobic. He had a phobia about infinity."

"How can you be afraid of a concept?" she asked in disbelief.

"Phobias aren't rational. When the tumor progressed to the point it made him psychotic, Peddicord fixated on that. It became the root of all his problems. It was what prevented him from going to heaven."

"I ... that," Sara sputtered as she played with her glass of tea. "Why did he leave that message at the theater? That didn't have anything to do with making infinity go away."

"He considered Mr. Morabito to be a friend. He wanted to make sure someone gave him a proper funeral."

"How did he pick his victims?"

"They talked to him. He was a delivery boy. Most people ignore them. He could be in a crowded elevator, and no one would pay attention to him. Mr. Wallace talked to him when he came to deliver his food. The others knew him and reacted to him."

"That's crazy," she huffed.

"So was he," Kane said, giving her a slight chuckle.

"Will his psychosis go away after the tumor is removed?" Grissom asked.

"It should. There was a case where a man developed pedophilia due to Frontal Lobe Syndrome. It disappeared immediately after the surgery. When the pedophiliac tendencies came back, a scan showed the tumor had returned. Once it was removed, he became normal again."

"But you don't know that for fact he won't be psychotic," Sara said.

"No. Sara, he'll be re-evaluated after surgery. If there is any sign of psychosis, he won't be set free. But right now, all indications are this was a medical condition completely out of his control. I know this is hard for you to accept, but Terry Peddicord was a victim as well."

"I guess," she said.

"Look, I realize it's 'late' for you night shift folks. I'll be going. Here's my card. If you want to talk, you can call me at any time."

"Thanks," Sara said, staring out the window as Grissom escorted the psychologist out.

* * *

"Sara. Dr. Grissom, come in," Max said, waving them into his room.

"Hey," she replied.

"Dr. Brandenburg, Ms. Vale," Grissom said, nodding to the teary-eyed woman sitting in a chair beside the hospital bed.

"You were one of the people who came to ask me about Terry," she said looking at Grissom. Turning to Sara, she gave a slight shudder. "You're the lady he attacked, aren't you?"

"Yeah," Sara said, her voice catching slightly.

She still was coming to terms with what Kane had said earlier that morning. From what Catherine told her, she knew this was her attacker's ex-fiancée.

"Did you hear what the doctors said was wrong with him?"

"Yes," Grissom said, directing Sara to a chair and standing by her side, resting a hand protectively on her shoulder.

"I'm so sorry. You know, it's my fault."

"You can't blame yourself," Sara said, startled by the strength of the woman's emotions.

"I should have known there was something wrong. We were going to get married, but I really didn't know him that well. He kept to himself, you know. I thought I was seeing a bad side of him. I should have known he would never, never …" she sobbed.

"Sharon, this wasn't your fault. You had no way of knowing," Brandenburg said softly, resting his hand over hers. He fixed Grissom with a pointed look. "He kept too much to himself. If he hadn't been so private, if he had been willing to let you really know him, you would have realized something was amiss. That was his problem, not yours."

Grissom blinked, then turned to watch Vale. "Dr. Brandenburg is correct. You shouldn't blame yourself. Terry's condition is treatable."

"I hope he dies," she said. "I really do. I know that sounds terrible, but Terry was a sweet, sweet man. He couldn't live with himself if he knew he killed those people. That would destroy anything that was left of him. I got to go. I'm so sorry."

Brandenburg turned to Sara after Vale left, tilting his head to examine her closely.

"How are you doing?"

"Okay, I guess. This has been too much."

"You need a nice, long vacation. Have you heard from Convesco?"

"Yeah. You didn't take their money, did you?" Sara asked in confusion. He certainly didn't need the money.

"Yes."

"I was going to send my back. It wasn't their fault."

"That wouldn't be a good idea. They'll send you back a bigger check if you do," Brandenburg told her seriously.

"What?"

"Believe it or not, you're doing them a favor by taking the money. It's a generous amount to an individual, but to a corporation that size, it's insignificant. They would much rather reach a quick settlement than have the threat of a lawsuit over their heads."

"I'm not going to sue."

"They don't know that. And a potential major lawsuit will drive down their stock prices and their bond status, it will increase their insurance, they'll need to tie up resources for a potential settlement. Honestly, they want you to take the money."

"He's probably right," Grissom said, patting her shoulder.

"If you don't want the money, give it to charity," Brandenburg suggested. "I signed my check over to the hospital. Peddicord didn't have insurance. It'll pay for his surgery."

"That was very … noble … of you," Grissom said.

"I try."

Grissom and Sara left when the physical therapist came in for Brandenburg's treatment. She noticed his uneasiness as they waited for the elevator.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Gil."

"He's so damn…"

"Noble?"

"Yes," he huffed.

"Intelligent?"

"Yes."

"Friendly?"

"So I've heard," he groused as they entered the elevator.

"Cute?"

"I'll take your word for that."

"Successful?"

"Very," Grissom growled.

"Sociable?"

"An overrated skill."

"And I'd rather be with you," Sara said, running her hand over his cheek. "What does that make you?"

"Very lucky."

* * *

Sara sat in her Yukon quietly listening to the radio as she stared at the front of the facility. Letting out a shaky sigh, she finished her soda and walked into the building.

She needed to get this over with quickly. Grissom didn't know she'd come. She doubted he be happy when he found out. He'd been amazingly overprotective about anything relating to her attack, and this was something she had to confront herself.

A guard greeted her in the lobby. She quickly filled out the paper work necessary before following the man through the locked doors, trying to ignore the calls coming from the rooms they passed. He led her down a final hallway, nodding to the plastic chair at the table.

On the opposite side, Terry Peddicord watched her carefully. Sara took a deep breath as she sat down, watching her attacker, the monster who haunted her dreams, with open curiosity.

"You're pretty," he said, dropping his head bashfully. "My name's Terry. Who are you?"

"I'm Sara," she said softly.

"Hi, Miss Sara. I'm coloring. See?" he said, a trembling hand lifting the drawing carefully. "It's a pony. Do you have a pony?"

"No, I don't."

"Ponies are nice. What happened to your hand?"

"I had an accident."

"I think I had an accident. I have a scar," he said, pointing to his bandaged head.

"Yeah. Do you like it here, Terry?"

"Uh, huh! I get to color, and do crafts, and watch TV, and I'm going to learn how to swim!"

Sara smiled sadly as he nodded his head enthusastically. Peddicord's psychosis had vanished when the surgeons had removed his tumor and damaged brain tissue.

The crazed killer was gone, but a grown man with a child's intellect was left behind.

He had no insurance, but he required constant attention. Rather than see him sent to a state facility with limited resources, Sara had used her settlement check from Convesco to arrange for him to be sent to a private psychiatric treatment facility.

He'd never leave.

The damage had been too extensive; even with therapy, he'd never be able to care for himself again. His dreams of going to college, of becoming an engineer, of getting married would never happen.

But he was happy. He had no memory at all of the attacks, no idea of the crimes he had committed.

He had led a life of self-isolation, not even allowing those closest to him to know his true self. The similarities to her own life were frightening. If he'd been more open, people would have known he needed help.

That would never happen to her, not now. Every morning before going to sleep, she and Grissom shared a private thought or memory. They'd vowed to not let the other slip behind their walls again.

"Would you like to color? I have extra crayons."

"Sure, Terry, I'd like that," she said, wiping a hand across her eyes to brush away her tears.

It was finally over.

**_The End_**


End file.
